/" 


PAULINE  FORE  MOFFITT 
LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITT  OF  CALIFORNIA 
GENERAL  LIBRARY,  BERKELEY 


HYPERION 

AND    KAVANAGH 


BY 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

MDCCCXCVIII 


Copyright,  1839,  1845,  1849,  1857,  1866,  1869,  and  1872, 
By  ILENRY  WADSWORTU  LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright,  1885, 
By  ERNEST  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright,  1886, 
By  UOUGIITON,  MIFFLTN  AND  COMPANXi 


All  refits  reserved. 


Tlie  TUverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Masc,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotypea  and  Printed  by  11.  0.  Uough'.on  &  Company. 


Add  to  Lib. 
GIFT 


CONTENTS 


HYPERION  :  A   ROMANCE.  pagb 

Introductory  Note    ....•••      7 

BOOK  L 
Chapter. 

I.    The  Hero 13 

II.   The  Christ  of  Andernach 16 

III.  HOJIUNCULUS 25 

IV.  The  Landlady's  Daughter          .        .        .        .30 
V.   Jean  Paul,  the  Only-One         ....  34 

VI.   Heidelberg  and  the  Baron         .        .        .        .42 

"S1I.   Lives  of  Scholars 49 

VIII.   Literary  Fasie 59 


BOOK  II. 

I.   Spring 71 

II.  A  Colloquy 74 

in.   Owl-Towers 78 

IV.   A  Beer-Scandal 85 

V.   The  White   Lady's   Slipper   and   the   Passion- 
flower   93 

VI.    Glimpses  into  Cloud-Land         .        .        „        .        97 
VII.   Mill- Wheels  and  other  Wheels         .        .        .111 

VIII.    Goethe 120 

IX.   The  Daylight  of  the   Dwarfs,  ant>  the  Fall- 
ing Star 127 

X.    The  Parting 137 


439 


6  CONTENTS 

BOOK  m, 

I.  SrjniF.R-TnrE 144 

II.  Foot-Tkavellinq 148 

III.  Interlachen 1.j5 

IV.  The  Evening  and  the  Morning  Star       .        .      103 

V.  A  Rainy  Day 108 

VI.  After  Dinner,  ant)  after  the  Manner  of  the 

Best  Critics '      181 

VII.  Take  Care! 101 

VIII.   The  Fountain  of  OsLmoN        ....       1% 

IX.   A  Talk  on  the  Staxrs 205 

BOOK  rv. 

I.  A  Miserere 212 

II.  Curfew  Bells 217 

III.  Shadows  on  the  Wall 220 

IV.  Musical  Sufferings  of  John  Kreisler       .        .  230 
V.   Saint  Gilgen 245 

VI.  Saint  Wolfgang 251 

VII.  The  Story  of  Brother  Bernardus         .        .       202 

VIII.  Footprints  of  Angels 271 

IX.   The  Last  Pang 278 

KAVANAGH: A  TALE. 

Introductory  Note 287 

Kavanagh 291 


HYPERION 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

Hyperion  as  a  book  was  begun  in  September, 
1838,  pursued  vigorously  during  the  fall,  worked 
at  more  slowly  througli  the  winter,  and  finally  put 
into  the  printer's  hands  in  June,  1839.  It  was 
finished  by  the  end  of  July,  and  published  the  sec- 
ond week  in  August.  The  material,  however,  out 
of  which  the  book  was  made  took  shape  earlier. 
The  basis  of  it  was  the  experience  of  Mr.  Long- 
fellow in  Europe  in  1835  and  1836.  '  He  left  New 
York  in  the  spring  of  1835,  accompanied  by  his 
wife  and  two  friends  ;  spent  the  summer  in  Eng- 
land and  Northern  Eui-ope,  but  went  to  Rotterdam 
in  the  fall.  There  his  wife  died  at  the  end  of 
November.  He  travelled  thence  alone  to  Heidel- 
berg, where  he  passed  the  winter,  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing summer  was  in  the  Tyrol  and  Switzerland, 
returning  to  America  in  October,  1836.  His  re- 
cently published  Life  enables  us  to  trace  his  jour- 
ney step  by  step,  and  the  route  from  Rotterdam 
to  Heidelberg  is  precisely  that  of  Paul  Flemming, 
while  the  studies  of  his  hero  in  Heidelberg,  his 
friendships  and  his  excursions  in  the  coming  sum- 
mer, correspond  substantially  with  Mr.  Longfellow's 
own  coui'se,  as  indicated  in  his  diary  and  letters. 


8  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

Mr.  Samuel  Longfellow  points  out  the  identity  of 
characters  in  the  book  with  certain  persons  whom 
the  author  fell  in  with,  and  the  whole  tale  is  a  re- 
scrijjt,  only  slightly  disguised,  of  the  poet's  spiritual 
as  well  as  external  experience.  He  himself  clearly 
indicated  the  relation  which  he  held  to  his  work 
in  a  letter  to  Mr.  George  Washington  Greene,  in 
which  he  says  :  — ■ 

"  I  have  ^v^itten  a  Romance  during  this  past  year. 
The  feelings  of  the  book  are  true  ;  the  events  of  the 
story  mostly  fictitious.  The  heroine,  of  course,  bears  a 
resemblance  to  the  lady,  without  being  an  exact  por- 
trait. There  is  no  betrayal  of  confidence,  no  real  scene 
described.  Hyperion  is  the  name  of  the  book,  not  of 
the  hero.  It  merely  indicates  that  here  is  the  life  of  one 
who  in  his  feelings  and  purposes  is  a  '  son  of  Heaven  and 
Earth,'  and  who,  though  obscured  by  clouds,  yet  '  moves 
on  high.'  Further  than  this  the  name  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  book,  and  in  fact  is  mentioned  only  once  in 
the  course  of  it.  I  expect  to  be  mightily  abused.  Peo- 
ple will  say  that  I  am  the  hero  of  my  own  romance,  and 
compare  myself  to  the  sun,  to  Hyperion  Apollo.  This 
is  not  so.  I  wish  only  to  embody  certain  feeUngs  which 
are  mine,  not  to  magnify  myself." 

In  writing  Hyperion  Mr.  Longfellow  easily 
WTOught  into  the  fabric  material  which  he  had 
previously  used  in  other  forms.  In  the  summer 
before  he  began  the  active  preparation  of  the  book, 
he  delivered  before  his  classes  at  Cambridge  a 
course  of  lectures  upon  the  Lives  of  Literary  Men, 
and  from  these  he  took  the  chapters  on  Jean  Paid, 
on  the  Lives  of  Scholars,  and  on  Literary  Fame  in 
the  first  Book;  the  sketch   of  an   artist's  life  in 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  9 

Rome  and  the  picture  of  the  Middle  Ages,  given 
in  the  third  Book  ;  and  the  chapter  on  Hoffmann 
and  his  writings,  in  the  fourth  Book.  From  Tlie 
Blank  Book  of  a  Country  Schoolmaster,  also, 
which  he  contributed  to  The  Knickerbocker  in 
1834  and  1835,  he  drew  some  passages. 

His  diary  indicates  the  eagerness  with  which  he 
set  about  the  book,  the  impatience  with  which  he 
bore  interruptions,  and  the  severity  of  the  criticism 
to  which  he  subjected  his  work.  He  had  at  first 
intended  to  name  his  hero  Hyperion,  then  he  gave 
him  the  name  of  St.  Clair,  and  finally  abandoned 
that  for  Paul  Flemming.  The  occasional  notes  in 
his  diary  intimate  the  hold  which  the  book  had 
upon  his  mind :  — 

"  October  18,  1838.  Wrote  a  chapter  in  Hyperion. 
Thus  slowly  goes  on  the  work.  Well,  or  ill,  I  must 
work  right  on,  and  wait  for  no  happier  moments. 

*'  October  23.  Worked  at  Hyperion  again.  Wrote 
chapter  six  of  Book  IV.,  —  a  touch  at  philosojihical 
dreatnery.  But  I  have  so  many  interruptions  !  No 
matter,  —  onward  !  If  it  be  but  one  chajiter  a  week, 
it  would  complete  the  book  within  a  year.  That 's  too 
long. 

"  November  5.  A  rainy  day,  and  now  a  rainy  night, 
—  for  a  chapter  in  Hyperion  !  Let  me  see  what  I  can 
do  at  a  dash !  Come  out  of  thy  drawer,  thou  thin, 
marbled  portfoUo  !  Open  thy  lips,  and  speak  of  Heidel- 
berg and  the  Baron !  And  out  of  this  flourish  came 
nothing  but  revision  of  my  work  and  meditation.  And 
as  I  sat  and  meditated  deep  into  the  night,  I  resolved 
to  suppress  one  entire  book ;  namely,  St.  Clair's  Day- 
Book. 

"  November  8.   A  rainy  day.    Passed  the  greater  part 


10  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

of  it  at  work  on  Hyperion,  retouching  and  writing. 
Wrote  a  new  chapter  one  to  Book  111.  ;  namely,  the 
short  chapter  on  Spring. 

''  December  10.  Company  till  noon.  .  .  .  After  they 
had  gone,  sat  down  to  Hyperion.  Went  without  my 
dinner  and  wrote  till  dark  ;  the  Baron  and  Heidelberg  ; 
and  the  arrangement  of  the  last  chapter  of  Book  I. 
The  fii'st  volume  is  now  ready  for  the  press. 

"  December  18.  Contrived  to  write  a  short  chapter 
in  Hyperion,  chapter  eight,  Book  IV.  Hope  to  get  into 
train  again  soon,  and  go  on  gallantly  as  before.  So  much 
for  breaks. 

"  April  5,  1839.  Confined  to  my  chamber  with  a  bad 
cold  and  feverish  unrest.  Worked  at  Hyperion  like 
a  hero. 

"  April  6.  An  exact  counterpart  of  yesterday  ;  and 
I  at  work  upon  my  Romance, — changing  and  arranging 
and  ^vriting  out  various  portions.  Wrote  the  last  chap- 
ter, though  others  remain  to  be  written." 

He  Avi'ote  to  his  father,  under  date  of  June  16, 
1839  :  — 

"  I  have  begun  to  print  Hyperion,  and  have  three  men 
at  work  upon  it,  setting  type.  I  hope  to  have  it  out  in 
about  a  month ;  and  shall,  unless  Colnian  delays.  As 
to  the  money  part  of  the  business,  he  is  to  pay  me  three 
hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars,  by  his  notes,  on  the 
day  of  publication  ;  said  notes  payable  in  three  and  six 
months.  ...  At  all  events,  I  get  the  book  very  hand- 
somely printed  and  widely  circulated  ;  and  this  is  a 
great  point.  As  to  its  success,  I  am  very  sanguine.  I 
look  upon  the  work  of  my  hands  with  a  very  complacent 
smile  ;  and  it  will  take  a  great  deal  of  persuasion  to 
convince  me  that  the  book  is  not  good.  This  is  my  can- 
did opinion." 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  11 

After  the  book  had  been  out  a  few  weeks  ho 
wrote  again  to  his  father :  — 

"  Hyperion  attracts  great  attention,  and  excites  very 
strong  and  opposite  feelings.  Some  praise,  and  others 
condemn  in  no  measured  terras  ;  and  the  book  sells  with 
a  rapidity  far  beyond  my  expectations.  I  hear  that  a 
new  edition  will  soon  be  called  for ;  which,  if  so,  will 
be  a  triumph,  considering  the  nature  of  the  book.  Peo- 
ple seem  to  be  much  puzzled  about  it,  and  some  are 
quite  angry  because  they  cannot  see  through  it  as  easily 
as  their  a  h  c.  But  I  have  the  approbation  of  those 
whose  ajjprobation  I  most  desire,  and  of  course  do  not 
much  care  how  others  abuse.  What  delights  me  is  that 
it  calls  forth  very  stronff  and  decided  opinions.  I  am 
free  for  once  from  the  laudatur  et  alget.'" 

"  See  what  ill-luck  with  Hyperion  "  [he  wrote  to  Mr. 
Greene,  January  2,  1840].  "  The  publisher  fails  ;  half 
the  edition  (that  is,  twelve  hundi-ed  coiDies)  is  seized  by 
creditors  and  locked  up ;  and  the  book  has  been  out  of 
the  market  for  four  months.  No  matter.  I  had  the 
glorious  satisfaction  of  writing  it.  ...  I  called  it  Hype- 
rion, because  it  moves  on  high,  among  clouds  and  stars, 
and  expresses  the  various  aspirations  of  the  soul  of  man.  i 
It  is  all  modelled  on  this  idea,  style  and  all.  It  con- 
tains my  cherished  thoughts  for  three  years.  Pardon 
my  saymg  so  much.  In  offset,  I  will  send  you  the  '  hor- 
rible dispraise'  I  spoke  of,  though  the  papers  that  ut- 
tered it  have  since  nearly  come  rouud,  and  have  even 
praised  some  parts  of  it.     How  victorious  is  sUence  !  " 

The  publisher  who  failed  was  Samuel  Colman,  of 
New  York.  The  book  came  out  in  two  volumes  in 
boards,  with  pale  olive-colored  paper  sides.  The 
author's  name  was  not  printed  on  the  title-page, 
but  the  book  was  announced  as  by  the  author  of 


12  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

Outrc-Mer.  Mr.  Longfellow  took  the  opportunity 
afforded  by  subsequent  editions  to  revise  the  text, 
but  the  structure  of  the  work  remains  unchanged. 
The  motto,  which  in  the  first  edition  was  placed  on 
the  title-page,  is  a  translation  from  an  inscription 
which  he  read  upon  a  funeral  tablet  in  the  church- 
yard of  St.  Gilgen  in  the  Tyrol,  as  described 
in  Book  IV.,  chapter  viii.  It  is  curious  that 
ten  years  later,  in  1849,  when  he  had  completed 
Kavanagh^  he  meditated  a  continuation  of  Ilype- 
>'io»,  intending  in  it  to  bring  his  hero  to  America. 

These  two  works  were  not  the  only  contribu- 
tions which  Mr.  Longfellow  made  to  fiction  in 
prose,  but  they  were  the  only  ones  which  he  cared 
to  preserve.  He  mentions  in  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Greene  that  he  has  published  a  tale  in  The  Token 
for  1832,  and  another  in  the  same  annual  for  1833. 
The  former  of  these  was  entitled  The  Indian 
Summer ;  the  latter  was  The  Bald  Eagle,  and 
may  have  been  the  accomplishment  of  a  design, 
mentioned  in  his  note-book  in  1829,  of  a  sketch 
based  on  the  reception  of  Lafayette  in  a  country 
village. 


HYPERION 

A  ROMANCE 

Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It  comes  not  back  again.  Wisely  im- 
prove the  Present.  It  is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future,  with- 
out  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST. 
CHAPTER  I. 

THE   HEKO. 

In  John  Lyly's  "  Enclymion,"  Sir  Topas  is  made 
to  say  :  "  Dost  thou  know  what  a  poet  is  ?  Why, 
fool,  a  poet  is  as  much  as  one  should  say,  —  a 
poet !  "  And  thou,  reader,  dost  thou  know  what 
a  hero  is  ?  Why,  a  hero  is  as  much  as  one  should 
say,  —  a  hero  !  Some  romance-writers,  however, 
say  much  more  than  this.  Nay,  the  old  Lombard, 
Matteo  Maria  Bojardo,  set  all  the  church-bells  in 
Scandiano  ringing,  merely  because  he  had  found 
a  name  for  one  of  his  heroes.  Here,  also,  shall 
church-bells  be  rung,  but  more  solemnly. 

The  setting  of  a  great  hope  is  like  the  setting  of 
the  sun.  The  brightness  of  our  life  is  gone. 
Shadows  of  evening  fall  around  us,  and  the  world 
seems  but  a  dim  reflection,  —  itself  a  broader 
shadow.     We  look  forward  into  the  coming  lonely 


14  HYPERION 

nisflit.  The  soul  withdraws  into  itself.  Then 
stars  arise,  and  the  night  is  holy. 

Paid  Flemming-  had  experienced  this,  though 
still  young.  The  friend  of  his  youth  was  dead. 
The  hough  had  broken  "  under  the  burden  of  the 
unripe  fruit."  And  when,  after  a  season,  he  looked 
up  again  from  the  blindness  of  his  sorrow,  all 
things  seemed  unreal.  Like  the  man  whose  sight 
had  been  restored  by  miracle,  he  beheld  men,  as 
trees,  walking.  His  household  gods  were  broken. 
He  had  no  home.  His  sympathies  cried  aloud 
from  his  desolate  soul,  and  there  came  no  answer 
from  the  busy,  turbident  world  around  him.  He 
did  not  willingly  give  way  to  grief.  He  struggled 
to  be  cheerful,  —  to  be  strong.  But  he  could  no 
lonjrer  look  into  the  familiar  faces  of  his  friends. 
He  could  no  longer  live  alone,  where  he  had  lived 
with  her.  He  went  abroad,  that  the  sea  might  be 
between  him  and  the  grave.  Alas !  between  him 
and  his  sorrow  there  coidd  be  no  sea,  but  that  of 
time. 

He  had  already  passed  many  months  in  lonely 
wandering,  and  was  now  pursuing  his  way  along 
the  Rhine,  to  the  South  of  Germany.  He  had 
journeyed  the  same  way  before,  in  brighter  days 
and  a  brighter  season  of  the  year,  in  the  May  of 
life  and  in  the  month  of  May.  He  knew  the  beau- 
tiful river  all  by  heart,  —  every  rock  and  ruin, 
every  echo,  every  legend.  The  ancient  castles, 
grim  and  hoar,  that  had  taken  root  as  it  were  on 
the  cliffs,  —  they  were  all  his  ;  for  his  thoughts 
dwelt  in  them,  and  the  wind  told  him  tales. 

He  had  passed  a  sleepless  night  at  Rolandseck, 


THE  HERO  15 

and  had  risen  before  daybreak.  He  opened  the 
window  of  the  balcony  to  hear  the_rushing  of  the 
Khine.  It  was  a  damp  December  morning ;  and 
elonds  were  passing  over  the  sky,  —  thin,  vapory 
clouds,  whose  snow-white  skirts  were  "  often  spotted 
with  golden  tears,  which  men  call  stars."  The  day 
dawned  slowly ;  and,  in  the  mingling  of  daylight 
and  starlight,  the  island  and  cloister  of  Nonnen- 
werth  made  together  but  one  broad,  dark  shadow 
on  the  silver  breast  of  the  river.  Beyond,  rose  the 
summits  of  the  Siebengebirg.  Solemn  and  dark, 
like  a  monk,  stood  the  Drachenfels,  in  his  hood  of 
mist ;  and  rearward  extended  the  curtain  of  moun- 
tains, back  to  the  Wolkenburg,  —  the  Castle  of 
Clouds. 

But  Flemmins:  thought  not  of  the  scene  before 
him.  Sorrow  unspeakable  was  ujjon  his  spirit  in 
that  lonely  hour ;  and,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands, 
he  exclaimed  aloud :  — 

"  Spirit  of  the  past !  look  not  so  mournfully  at 
me  with  thy  great  tearful  eyes  !  Touch  me  not 
with  thy  cold  hand !  Breathe  not  upon  me  with 
the  icy  breath  of  the  grave  !  Chant  no  more  that 
dirge  of  sorrow,  through  the  long  and  silent  watches 
of  the  night !  " 

Mournful  voices  from  afar  seemed  to  answer, 
"  Treuenfels  !  "  and  he  remembered  how  others  had 
suffered,  and  his  heart  grew  still. 

Slowly  the  landscape  brightened.  Down  the 
rushing  stream  came  a  boat,  with  its  white  wings 
spread,  and  darted  like  a  swallow  through  the  nar- 
row pass  of  God's-Help.  The  boatmen  were  sing- 
ing, —  but  not  the   song   of   Roland   the   Brave, 


16  HYPERION 

which  was  heard  of  old  by  the  weeping  Hildegimd, 
as  she  sat  within  the  walls  of  that  cloister  which 
now  looked  forth  in  the  pale  morning  from  amid 
the  leafless  linden-trees.  The  dim  traditions  of 
those  gray  old  times  rose  in  the  traveller's  memory  ; 
for  the  ruined  tower  of  Rolandseck  was  still  look- 
ing down  upon  the  Kloster  Nonnenwerth,  as  if  the 
sound  of  the  funeral  bell  had  changed  the  faithful 
paladin  to  stone  and  he  were  watching  still  to  see 
the  form  of  his  beloved  one  come  forth,  not  from 
her  cloister,  but  from  her  grave.  Thus  the  brazen 
clasps  of  the  book  of  legends  were  opened,  and,  on 
the  page  illuminated  by  the  misty  rays  of  the  rising 
sun,  he  read  again  the  tales  of  Liba,  and  the  mourn- 
ful bride  of  Argenfels,  and  Siegfried,  the  mighty 
slayer  of  the  dragon.  Meanwhile  the  mists  had 
risen  from  the  Rhine,  and  the  whole  air  was  filled 
with  golden  vapor,  through  which  he  beheld  the 
sun,  hanging  in  heaven  like  a  drop  of  blood. 
Even  thus  shone  the  sun  within  him,  amid  the 
wintry  vapors  uprising  from  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  through  which  flowed  the  stream 
of  his  life,  —  sighing,  sighing  I 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE   CHRIST   OF  ANDERNACH. 

Paul  Flemming  resumed  his  solitary  journey. 
The  morning  was  still  misty,  but  not  cold.  Across 
the  Rhine  the  sun  came  wading  through  the  red- 
dish  vapors ;  and  soft  and  silver-white  outspread 
the  broad  river,  without  a  ripple  upon  its  surface, 


THE    CHRIST  OF  ANDERNACH  17 

or  visible  motion  of  the  ever-moving  current.  A 
little  vessel,  with  one  loose  sail,  was  riding  at  an- 
chor, keel  to  keel  with  another  that  lay  beneath  it, 
its  own  apparition,  —  and  all  was  silent,  and  calm, 
and  beautiful. 

The  road  was  for  the  most  part  solitary ;  for 
there  are  but  few  travellers  upon  the  Rhine  in 
winter.  Peasant-women  were  at  work  in  the  vine- 
yards, climbing  up  the  slippery  hillsides,  like  beasts 
of  burden,  with  large  baskets  upon  their  backs. 
And  once  during  the  morning  a  band  of  appren- 
tices, with  knapsacks,  passed  by,  singing,  "  The 
Rhine  !  the  Rhine  !  a  blessing  on  the  Rhine  !  " 

Oh,  the  pride  of  the  German  heart  in  this  noble 
river  !  And  right  it  is ;  for,  of  all  the  rivers  of 
this  beautiful  earth,  there  is  none  so  beautiful  as 
this.  There  is  hardly  a  league  of  its  whole  course, 
from  its  cradle  in  the  snowy  Alps  to  its  grave  in 
the  sands  of  Holland,  which  boasts  not  its  peculiar 
charms.  By  heavens !  If  I  were  a  German,  I 
would  be  proud  of  it  too;  and  of  the  clustering 
grapes  that  hang  about  its  temples,  as  it  reels  on- 
ward through  vineyards  in  a  triumphal  march,  like 
Bacchus  crowned  and  drunken. 

But  I  wiU  not  attempt  to  describe  the  Rhine  ;  it 
would  make  this  chapter  much  too  long.  And  to 
do  it  well,  one  should  write  like  a  god ;  and  his 
language  flow  onward  royally  with  breaks  and 
dashes,  like  the  waters  of  that  royal  river,  and 
antique,  quaint,  and  Gothic  times  be  reflected  in 
it.  Alas !  this  evening  mine  flows  not  at  all. 
Flow,  then,  into  this  smoke-colored  goblet,  thou 
blood  of  the  Rhine !    out  of  thy  prison-house,  — 


18  HYPERION 

out  of  thy  long-necked,  tapering  flask,  in  shape 
not  unlike  a  church-spire  among  thy  native  hills  ; 
and  from  the  crystal  belfry  loud  ring  the  merry 
tinkling  bells,  while  I  drink  a  health  to  my  hero, 
in  whose  heart  is  sadness,  and  in  whose  ears  the 
bells  of  Andernach  are  ringing  noon. 

He  is  threading  his  way  along  through  a  narrow 
alley,  and  now  up  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  and  along 
the  city  wall,  towards  that  old  round  tower  built 
by  the  Archbishop  Frederick  of  Cologne,  in  the 
twelfth  century.  It  has  a  romantic  interest  in  his 
eyes  ;  for  he  has  still  in  his  mind  and  heart  that 
beautiful  sketch  of  Carov^,  in  which  is  described  a 
day  on  the  tower  of  Andernach.  He  finds  the  old 
keeper  and  his  wife  still  there  ;  and  the  old  keeper 
closes  the  door  behind  him  slowly,  as  of  yore,  lest 
he  should  jam  too  hard  the  poor  souls  in  purgatory, 
whose  fate  it  is  to  suffer  in  the  cracks  of  doors  and 
hinges.  But,  alas !  alas  !  the  daughter,  the  maiden 
with  long,  dark  eyelashes !  she  is  asleep  in  her 
little  grave,  under  the  linden-trees  of  Feldkirche, 
with  rosemary  in  her  folded  hands  ! 

Flemming  returned  to  the  hotel  disappointed. 
As  he  passed  along  the  narrow  streets,  he  was 
dreaming  of  many  things ;  but  mostly  of  the 
keeper's  daughter,  asleep  in  the  churchyard  of 
Feldkirche.  Suddenly,  on  turning  the  corner  of 
an  ancient,  gloomy  church,  his  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  a  little  chapel  in  an  angle  of  the  wall. 
It  was  only  a  small  thatched  roof,  like  a  bird's 
nest ;  under  which  stood  a  rude  wooden  image  of 
the  Saviour  on  the  cross.  A  real  crown  of  thorns 
was  upon  his  head,  which  was  bowed  downward,  as 


THE   CHRIST  OF  ANDERNACH  19 

if  in  the  death  agony ;  and  drops  of  blood  were 
falling  down  his  cheeks,  and  from  his  hands  and 
^eet  and  side.  The  face  was  haggard  and  ghastly 
beyond  expression,  and  wore  a  look  of  unutterable 
bodily  anguish.  The  rude  sculptor  had  given  it 
this,  but  his  art  could  go  no  further.  The  sub- 
limity of  death  in  a  dying  Saviour,  the  expiring 
God-likeness  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  was  not  there. 
The  artist  had  caught  no  heavenly  inspiration  from 
his  theme.  All  was  coarse,  harsh,  and  revolting 
to  a  sensitive  mind ;  and  Flemming  turned  away 
with  a  shudder,  as  he  saw  this  fearful  image  gazing 
at  him,  with  its  fixed  and  half-shut  eyes. 

He  soon  reached  the  hotel,  but  that  face  of 
agony  still  haunted  him.  He  could  not  refrain 
from  speaking  of  it  to  a  very  old  woman,  who  sat 
knitting  by  the  window  of  the  dining-room,  in  a 
high-backed,  old-fashioned  arm-chair.  I  believe 
she  was  the  inn-keeper's  grandmother.  At  all 
events,  she  was  old  enough  to  be  so.  She  took  off 
her  owl-eyed  spectacles,  and,  as  she  wiped  the 
glasses  with  her  handkerchief,  said :  — 

"  Thou  dear  Heaven !  Is  it  possible  ?  Did 
you  never  hear  of  the  Christ  of  Andernach  ?  " 

Flemming  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Thou  dear  Heaven  !  "  continued  the  old  wo- 
man. "  It  is  a  very  wonderful  story ;  and  a  true 
one,  as  every  good  Christian  in  Andernach  will 
tell  you.  And  it  all  happened  before  the  death 
of  my  blessed  man,  four  years  ago  ;  let  me  see, 
■ —  yes,  four  years  ago,  come  Christmas." 

Here  the  old  woman  stopped  speaking,  but  went 
on  with  her  knitting.     Other  thoughts  seemed  to 


20  HYPERION 

occupy  her  mind.  She  was  thinking,  no  doubt, 
of  her  blessed  man,  as  German  widows  call  their 
dead  husbands.  But  Fleniining  having  expressed 
an  ardent  wish  to  hear  the  wonderful  story,  she 
told  it,  in  nearly  the  following  words. 

"  There  was  once  a  poor  old  woman  in  Ander- 
nach  whose  name  was  Frau  Martha,  and  she  lived 
all  alone  in  a  house  by  herself,  and  loved  all  the 
Saints  and  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  was  as  good  as 
an  angel,  and  sold  tarts  down  by  the  Rheinkrahn. 
But  her  house  was  very  old,  and  the  roof-tiles 
were  broken,  and  she  was  too  poor  to  get  new 
ones,  and  the  rain  kept  coming  in,  and  no  Chris- 
tian soul  in  Andernach  would  help  her.  But  the 
Frau  Martha  was  a  good  woman,  and  never  did 
anybody  any  harm,  but  went  to  mass  every  morn- 
ing, and  sold  tarts  down  by  the  Rheinki-ahn.  Now 
one  dark,  windy  night,  when  all  the  good  Chris- 
tians in  Andernach  were  asleep  in  the  feathers, 
Frau  Martha,  who  lay  under  the  roof,  heard  a 
great  noise  over  her  head,  and  in  her  chamber, 
drip !  drip !  drip !  as  if  the  rain  were  dropping 
down  through  the  broken  tiles.  Dear  soul !  and, 
sure  enough,  it  was.  And  then  there  was  a  pound- 
ing and  hammering  overhead,  as  if  somebody  were 
at  work  on  the  roof ;  and  she  thought  it  was  Pelz- 
Nickel  tearing  the  tiles  off,  because  she  had  not 
been  to  confession  often  enough.  So  she  began  to 
pray ;  and  the  faster  she  said  her  Pater-noster  and 
her  Ave  Maria,  the  faster  Pelz-Nickel  pounded 
and  pulled  ;  and  drip !  drip  !  drip  !  it  went  all 
roimd  her  in  the  dark  chamber,  till  the  poor  wo- 
man was  frightened  out  of  her  wits,  and  ran  to 


THE   CHRIST  OF  ANDERNACH  21 

the  window  to  call  for  help.  Then  in  a  moment 
all  was  still,  —  death-still.  But  she  saw  a  light 
streaming  through  the  mist  and  rain,  and  a  great 
shadow  on  the  house  opposite.  And  then  some- 
body came  down  from  the  top  of  her  house  by  a 
ladder,  and  had  a  lantern  in  his  hand  ;  and  he  took 
the  ladder  on  his  shoulder  and  passed  down  the 
street.  But  she  coidd  not  see  clearly,  because  the 
window  was  streaked  with  rain.  And  in  the 
morning  the  old  broken  tiles  were  found  scattered 
about  the  street,  and  there  were  new  ones  on  the 
roof,  and  the  old  house  has  never  leaked  to  this 
blessed  day. 

"  As  soon  as  mass  was  over,  Frau  Martha  told 
the  priest  what  had  happened,  and  he  said  it  was 
not  Pelz-Nickel,  but,  without  doubt,  St.  Castor  or 
St.  Florian.  Then  she  went  to  the  market  and 
told  Frau  Bridget  all  about  it ;  and  Frau  Bridget 
said,  that,  two  nights  before,  Hans  Claus,  the 
cooper,  had  heard  a  great  pounding  in  his  shop, 
and  in  the  morning  found  new  hoops  on  all  his 
hogsheads ;  and  that  a  man  with  a  lantern  and  a 
ladder  had  been  seen  riding  out  of  town  at  mid- 
night on  a  donkey  ;  and  that  the  same  night  the 
old  windmill,  at  Kloster  St.  Thomas,  had  been 
mended,  and  the  old  gate  of  the  churchyard  at 
Feldkirche  made  as  good  as  new,  though  nobody 
knew  how  the  man  got  across  the  river.  Then 
Frau  Martha  went  down  to  the  Rheinkrahn  and 
told  all  these  stories  over  again  ;  and  the  old  ferry- 
man of  Fahr  said  he  could  tell  something  about 
it ;  for,  the  very  night  that  the  churchyard-gate 
was  mended,  he  was  lying  awake  in  his  bed,  be- 


22  HYPERION 

cause  he  could  not  sleep,  and  he  heard  a  loud 
knocking  at  the  door,  and  somebody  calling  to 
him  to  get  up  and  set  him  over  the  river.  And 
when  he  got  up,  he  saw  a  man  down  by  the  river 
with  a  lantern  and  a  ladder ;  but  as  he  was  going 
down  to  him,  the  man  blew  out  the  light,  and  it 
was  so  dark  he  coidd  not  see  who  he  was ;  and  his 
boat  was  old  and  leaky,  and  he  was  afraid  to  set 
him  over  in  the  dark ;  but  the  man  said  he  must 
be  in  Andernach  that  night ;  and  so  he  set  him 
over.  And  after  they  had  crossed  the  river,  he 
watched  the  man,  till  he  came  to  an  image  of  the 
Holy  Virgin,  and  saw  him  put  the  ladder  against 
the  wall,  and  go  up  and  light  his  lamp,  and  then 
walk  along  the  street.  And  in  the  morning  he 
found  his  old  boat  all  calked,  and  tight,  and  painted 
red,  and  he  could  not  for  his  blessed  life  tell  who 
did  it,  imless  it  were  the  man  with  the  lantern. 
Dear  soul !  how  strange  it  was  ! 

"  And  so  it  went  on  for  some  time  ;  and  when- 
ever the  man  with  the  lantern  had  been  seen  walk- 
ing through  the  street  at  night,  so  sure  as  the 
morning  came,  some  work  had  been  done  for  the 
sake  of  some  good  soul ;  and  everybody  knew  he 
did  it ;  and  yet  nobody  could  find  out  who  he  was, 
nor  where  he  lived ;  —  for,  whenever  anybody 
came  near  him,  he  blew  out  his  light,  turned  down 
another  street,  and  suddenly  disappeared,  nobody 
could  tell  how.  And  some  said  it  was  Riibezahl ; 
and  some,  PeLz-Nickel ;  and  some,  St.  Anthony -on- 
the-Heath. 

"  Now  one  stormy  night,  a  poor,  sinful  creature 
was  wandering  about  the  streets,  with  her  babe  in 


THE   CHRIST  OF  ANDERNACH  23 

her  arms,  and  she  was  hungry,  and  cold,  and  no 
soul  in  Andernacli  would  take  her  in.  And  when 
she  came  to  the  church,  where  the  great  crucifix 
stands,  she  saw  no  light  in  the  little  chapel  at  the 
corner ;  but  she  sat  down  on  a  stone  at  the  foot  of 
the  cross  and  began  to  pray,  and  prayed  till  she 
fell  asleep,  with  her  poor  little  babe  on  her  bosom. 
But  she  did  not  sleep  long ;  for  a  bright  light 
shone  full  in  her  face  ;  and  when  she  opened  her 
eyes,  she  saw  a  pale  man,  with  a  lantern,  standing 
right  before  her.  He  was  almost  naked ;  and 
there  was  blood  upon  his  hands  and  body,  and 
great  tears  in  his  beautiful  eyes,  and  his  face  was 
like  the  face  of  the  Saviour  on  the  cross.  Not  a 
single  word  did  he  say  to  the  poor  woman  ;  but 
looked  at  her  compassionately,  and  gave  her  a  loaf 
of  bread,  and  took  the  little  babe  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  it.  Then  the  mother  looked  up  to  the  great 
crucifix,  but  there  was  no  image  there  ;  and  she 
shrieked  and  fell  down  as  if  she  were  dead.  And 
there  she  was  found  with  her  child ;  and  a  few 
days  after,  they  both  died,  and  were  buried  to- 
gether in  one  grave.  And  nobody  would  have  be- 
lieved her  story,  if  a  woman,  who  lived  at  the  cor- 
ner, had  not  gone  to  the  window  when  she  heard 
the  scream,  and  seen  the  figure  hang  the  lantern 
up  in  its  place,  and  then  set  the  ladder  against  the 
wall,  and  go  up  and  nail  itself  to  the  cross.  Since 
that  night  it  has  never  moved  again.  Ach  !  Herr 
Je!" 

Such  was  the  legend  of  the  Christ  of  Ander- 
nach,  as  the  old  woman  in  spectacles  told  it  to 
Flemming.     It  made  a  painful  impression  on  his 


24  HYPERION 

sick  and  morbid  soul ;  and  he  felt  now  for  the  first 
time  how  great  is  the  power  of  popular  super* 
stition. 

The  post-chaise  being  already  at  the  door,  Flem- 
mine:  was  soon  on  the  road  to  Coblentz,  a  town 
which  stands  upon  the  llhine,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Mosel,  ojjposite  Ehrenbreitstein.  It  is  by  no 
means  a  long  drive  from  Anderuach  to  Coblentz  ; 
and  the  only  incident  which  occurred  to  enliven 
the  way  was  the  appearance  of  a  fat,  red-faced 
man  on  horseback,  trotting  slowly  towards  Ander- 
nach.  As  they  met,  the  mad  little  postilion  gave 
him  a  friendly  cut  with  his  whip,  and  broke  out 
into  an  exclamation,  which  showed  he  was  from 
Miinster :  — 

"  Jesmariosp  !  my  friend  !  How  is  the  Man  in 
the  Kaufhaus  ?  " 

Now  to  any  candid  mind  this  would  seem  a  fair 
question  enough  ;  but  not  so  thought  the  red-faced 
man  on  horseback ;  for  he  waxed  exceedingly 
angry,  and  replied,  as  the  chaise  whirled  by :  — 

"  The  devil  take  you,  and  your  Westphalian 
ham,  and  pumpernickel !  " 

Flemming  called  to  his  servant,  and  the  servant 
to  the  postilion,  for  an  explanation  of  this  short 
dialogue  ;  and  the  ex2)lanation  was,  that  on  the  bel- 
fry of  the  Kaufhaus  in  Coblentz  is  a  huge  head 
with  a  brazen  helmet  and  a  beard ;  and  whenever 
the  clock  strikes,  at  each  stroke  of  the  hammer, 
this  giant's  head  opens  its  great  jaws  and  smites  its 
teeth  together,  as  if,  like  the  brazen  head  of  Friar 
Bacon,  it  would  say,  "  Time  was ;  Time  is ;  Time 
is  past."     This  figure  is  known  through  all  the 


HOMUNCULUS  25 

country  round  about  as  "  The  Man  in  the  Kauf- 
haus  ;  "  and  when  a  friend  in  the  country  meets  a 
friend  from  Coblentz,  instead  of  saying,  "  How 
are  all  the  good  people  in  Coblentz?  "  —  he  says, 
"  How  is  the  Man  in  the  Kaufhaus?  "  Thus  the 
giant  has  a  great  part  to  play  in  the  town.  And 
thus  ended  the  first  day  of  Flemming's  Rhine- 
journey  ;  and  the  only  good  deed  he  had  done  was 
to  give  an  alms  to  a  poor  beggar  woman,  who  lifted 
up  her  trembling  hands  and  exclaimed :  — 
"  Thou  blessed  babe !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

HOMUNCULUS. 

After  all,  a  journey  up  the  Rhine,  in  the  mists 
and  solitude  of  December,  is  not  so  unpleasant  as 
the  reader  may  imagine.  You  have  the  whole 
road  and  river  to  yourself.  Nobody  is  on  the 
wing ;  hardly  a  single  traveller.  The  ruins  are  the 
same ;  and  the  river,  and  the  outlines  of  the  hills ; 
and  there  are  few  living  figures  in  the  landscape 
to  wake  you  from  your  musings,  distract  your 
thoughts,  and  cover  you  with  dust. 

Thus  likewise  thought  our  traveller,  as  he  con- 
tinued his  journey  on  the  morrow.  The  day  is 
overcast,  and  the  clouds  threaten  rain  or  snow. 
Why  does  he  stop  at  the  little  village  of  Capellen  ? 
Because,  right  above  him  on  the  high  cliff,  the 
glorious  ruin  of  Stolzenfels  is  looking  at  him  with 
its  hollow  eyes,  and  beckoning  to  him  with  its 
gigantic  finger,  as  if  to  say,  "  Ceme  up  hither,  and 


26  HYPERION 

I  will  tell  thee  an  old  tale."  Therefore  he  alights, 
and  goes  up  the  narrow  village  lane,  and  up  the 
stone  steps,  and  up  the  steep  pathway,  and  throws 
himself  into  the  arms  of  that  ancient  ruin,  and 
holds  his  breath,  to  hear  the  quick  footsteps  of  the 
falling  snow,  like  the  footsteps  of  angels  descend- 
ing upon  earth.  And  that  ancient  ruin  speaks  to 
liim  with  its  hollow  voice,  and  says :  — 

"  Beware  of  dreams  !  Beware  of  the  illusions 
of  fancy!  Beware  of  the  solemn  deceivings  of 
thy  vast  desires !  Beneath  me  flows  the  Rhine, 
and,  like  the  stream  of  Time,  it  flows  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  Past.  I  see  myself  therein,  and  I 
know  that  I  am  old.  Thou,  too,  shalt  be  old. 
Be  wise  in  season.  Like  the  stream  of  thy  life 
runs  the  stream  beneath  us.  Down  from  the  dis- 
tant Alps,  —  out  into  the  wide  world,  it  bursts 
away,  like  a  youth  from  the  house  of  his  fathers. 
Broad-breasted  and  strong,  and  with  earnest  en- 
deavors, like  manhood,  it  makes  itself  a  way 
through  these  difficult  mountain-passes.  And  at 
length,  in  its  old  age,  it  falters,  and  its  steps  are 
weary  and  slow,  and  it  sinks  into  the  sand,  and, 
through  its  grave,  passes  into  the  great  ocean, 
which  is  its  eternity.  Thus  shall  it  be  with 
thee. 

"  In  ancient  times,  there  dwelt  within  these  halls 
a  follower  of  Jesus  of  Jerusalem,  —  an  Archbishop 
in  the  Church  of  Christ.  He  gave  himself  up  to 
dreams,  to  the  illusions  of  fancy,  to  the  vast  de- 
sires of  the  human  soul.  He  sought  after  the  im- 
possible. He  sought  after  the  Elixir  of  Life,  — 
the  Philosopher's  Stone.     The  wealth  that  should 


HOMUNCULUS  27 

have  fed  the  poor  was  melted  in  his  crucibles. 
Within  these  walls  the  Eagle  of  the  clouds  sucked 
the  blood  of  the  Eed  Lion,  and  received  the  spir- 
itual love  of  the  Green  Dragon ;  but,  alas  !  was 
childless.  In  solitude  and  utter  silence  did  the 
disciple  of  the  Hermetic  Philosophy  toil  from  day 
to  day,  from  night  to  night.  From  the  place  where 
thou  standest,  he  gazed  at  evening  upon  hills,  and 
vales,  and  waters  spread  beneath  him ;  and  saw 
how  the  setting  sun  had  changed  them  all  to  gold, 
by  an  alchemy  more  cunning  than  his  own.  He 
saw  the  world  beneath  his  feet ;  and  said  in  his 
heart,  that  he  alone  was  wise.  Alas  !  he  read  more 
willingly  in  the  book  of  Paracelsus  than  in  the 
book  of  Nature ;  and,  believing  that  '  where  reason 
hath  experience,  faith  hath  no  mind,'  would  fain 
have  made  unto  himself  a  child,  as  the  Philosopher 
taught,  —  a  poor  homunculus,  in  a  glass  bottle. 
And  he  died  poor  and  childless !  " 

Whether  it  were  worth  while  to  climb  the  Stol- 
zenfels  to  hear  such  a  homily  as  this,  some  persons 
may  perhaps  doubt.  But  Paul  Flemming  doubted 
not.  He  laid  the  lesson  to  heart ;  and  it  would 
have  saved  him  many  an  hour  of  sorrow,  if  he  had 
learned  that  lesson  better,  and  remembered  it 
longer. 

In  ancient  times,  there  stood  in  the  citadel  of 
Athens  three  statues  of  Minerva.  The  first  was 
of  olive-wood,  and,  according  to  popular  tradition, 
had  fallen  from  heaven.  The  second  was  of  bronze, 
commemorating  the  victory  of  Marathon  ;  and  the 
third  of  gold  and  ivory,  —  a  great  miracle  of  art, 
in  the  age  of  Pericles.     And  thus  in  the  citadel  of 


28  HYPERION 

Time  stands  Man  himself.  In  childhood,  shaped 
of  soft  and  delicate  wood,  just  fallen  from  heaven ; 
in  manhood,  a  statue  of  bronze,  commemorating 
struggle  and  victory  ;  and,  lastly,  in  the  maturity 
of  age,  perfectly  shaped  in  gold  and  ivory,  —  a 
miracle  of  art  ! 

Flemmiug  had  already  lived  through  the  olive 
age.  He  was  passing  into  the  age  of  bronze,  into 
his  early  manhood  ;  and  in  his  hands  the  flowers 
of  Paradise  were  changing  to  the  sword  and  shield. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  I  have  not  yet  de- 
scribed my  hero.  I  will  do  it  now,  as  he  stands 
looking  down  on  the  glorious  landscape  ;  —  but  in 
few  words.  Both  in  person  and  character  he  re- 
sembled Harold  the  Fair-Hair  of  Norway,  who  is 
described,  in  the  old  Icelandic  Death-Song  of  Reg- 
ner  Hairy-Breeches,  as  "  the  young  chief  so  proud 
of  his  flowing  locks  ;  he  who  spent  his  mornings 
among  the  young  maidens ;  he  who  loved  to  con- 
verse with  the  handsome  widows."  This  was  an 
amiable  weakness,  and  it  sometimes  led  him  into 
mischief.  Imagination  was  the  ruling  power  of 
his  mind.  His  thoughts  were  twin-born  ;  the 
thought  itself,  and  its  figurative  semblance  in  the 
outer  world.  Thus,  through  the  quiet,  still  waters 
of  his  soul  each  image  floated  double,  "  swan  and 
shadow." 

These  traits  of  character,  a  good  heart,  and  a 
poetic  imagination,  made  his  life  joyous  and  the 
world  beautiful ;  till  at  length  Death  cut  down  the 
sweet  blue  flower  that  bloomed  beside  him,  and 
wounded  him  with  that  sharp  sickle,  so  that  he 
bowed  his  head,  and  would  fain  have  been  bound 


HOMUNCULUS  29 

up  in  the  same  sheaf  with  the  sweet  blue  flower. 
Hien  the  world  seemed  to  him  less  beautiful,  and 
life  became  earnest.  It  would  have  been  well,  if 
he  could  have  forgotten  the  past ;  that  he  might 
not  so  mournfully  have  lived  in  it,  but  might  have 
enjoyed  and  improved  the  present.  But  this  his 
heart  refused  to  do  ;  and  ever,  as  he  floated  upon 
the  great  sea  of  life,  he  looked  down  through  the 
transparent  waters,  checkered  with  sunshine  and 
shade,  into  the  vast  chambers  of  the  mighty  deep 
in  which  his  happier  days  had  sunk,  and  wherein 
they  were  lying  still  visible,  like  golden  sands,  and 
jjrecious  stones,  and  pearls  ;  and,  half  in  despair, 
half  in  hope,  he  grasped  downward  after  them 
again,  and  drew  back  his  hand,  filled  only  with 
sea-weed,  and  dripping  with  briny  tears !  And 
between  him  and  those  golden  sands  a  radiant 
image  floated,  like  the  spirit  in  Dante's  Paradise, 
singing,  "  Ave  Maria  !  "  and  while  it  sang,  down- 
sinking,  and  slowly  vanishing  away. 

In  all  things  he  acted  more  from  impulse  than 
from  fixed  princij)le,  as  is  the  case  with  most 
young  men.  Indeed,  his  principles  hardly  had 
time  to  take  root ;  for  he  pulled  them  all  up,  every 
now  and  then,  as  children  do  the  flowers  they  have 
planted,  —  to  see  if  they  are  growing.  Yet  there 
was  much  in  him  which  was  good  ;  for  underneath 
the  flowers  and  greensward  of  poetry,  and  the 
good  princijjles  which  would  have  taken  root  had 
he  given  them  time,  there  lay  a  strong  and  healthy 
soil  of  common  sense,  ■ —  freshened  by  living  springs 
of  feeling,  and  enriched  by  many  faded  hoj)es,  that 
had  fallen  upon  it  like  dead  leaves. 


80  HYPERION 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  landlady's   DAUGHTER. 

"  Allez,  Fuchs  !  allez,  lustig  !  "  cried  the  impa- 
tient  postilion  to  his  horses,  in  accents  which,  like 
the  wild  echo  of  the  Lurley  Felsen,  came  first 
from  one  side  of  the  river  and  then  from  the  other, 
—  that  is  to  say,  in  words  alternately  French  and 
German.  The  truth  is,  he  was  tired  of  waiting  ; 
and  when  Flemming  had  at  length  resumed  his 
seat  in  the  post-chaise,  the  poor  horses  had  to  make 
up  the  time  he  had  lost  in  dreams  on  the  mountain. 
This  is  far  oftener  the  case  than  most  peojjle 
imagine.  One  half  of  the  world  must  sweat  and 
groan,  that  the  other  half  may  dream.  It  would 
have  been  a  difficult  task  for  the  traveller  or  his 
postilion  to  persuade  the  horses  that  these  dreams 
were  all  for  their  good. 

The  next  stopping-place  was  the  little  tavern  of 
the  Star,  an  out-of-the-way  corner  in  the  town  of 
Salzig.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  ;  and, 
directly  in  front  of  it,  sheer  from  the  water's  edge, 
rise  the  mountains  of  Liebenstein  and  Sternenfels, 
each  with  its  ruined  castle.  These  are  the  Broth- 
ers of  the  old  tradition,  stiU  gazing  at  each  other 
face  to  face  ;  and  beneath  them,  in  the  valley, 
stands  a  cloister,  —  meet  emblem  of  that  orphan 
child  they  both  so  passionately  loved. 

In  a  small  flat-bottomed  boat  did  the  landlady's 
daughter  row  Flemming  "  over  the  Rhine-stream, 
rapid  and  roai-ing  wide."  She  was  a  beautiful  girl 
of  sixteen  ;  with  black  hair,  and  dark,  lovely  eyeSj 


THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTER  31 

and  a  face  that  had  a  story  to  tell.  How  different 
faces  are  in  this  particular  !  Some  of  them  speak 
not.  They  are  books  in  which  not  a  line  is  written, 
save  perhaps  a  date.  Others  are  great  Family 
Bibles,  with  both  the  Old  and  the  New  Testament 
written  in  them.  Others  are  Mother  Goose  and 
nursery  tales  ;  others,  bad  tragedies,  or  pickle- 
herring  farces  ;  and  others,  like  that  of  the  land- 
lady's daughter  at  the  Star,  sweet  love-anthologies, 
and  songs  of  the  affections.  It  was  on  that  account 
that  Flemming  said  to  her,  as  they  glided  out  into 
the  swift  stream,  "  My  dear  child  I  do  you  know 
the  story^f  the  Liebenstein  ?  " 

"  The  story  of  the  Liebenstein,"  she  answered, 
"  I  knew  by  heart  when  I  was  a  little  child." 

And  here  her  large,  dark,  passionate  eyes  looked 
into  riemming's,  and  he  doubted  not  that  she  had 
learned  the  story  far  too  soon  and  far  too  well. 
That  story  he  longed  to  hear,  as  if  it  were  un- 
known to  him  ;  for  he  knew  that  the  girl,  who  had 
got  it  by  heart  when  a  child,  would  tell  it  as  it 
should  be  told.  So  he  begged  her  to  repeat 
the  story,  which  she  was  but  too  glad  to  do  ;  for 
she  loved  and  believed  it,  as  if  it  had  all  been  writ- 
ten in  the  Bible.  But  before  she  began,  she  rested 
a  moment  on  her  oars,  and,  taking  the  crucifix 
which  hung  suspended  from  her  neck,  kissed  it, 
and  then  let  it  sink  down  into  her  bosom,  as  if  it 
were  an  anchor  she  was  dropping  into  her  heart. 
Meanwhile,  her  moist,  dark  eyes  were  turned  to 
heaven.  Perhaps  her  soul  was  walking  with  the 
souls  of  Cunizza,  and  Rahab,  and  Mary  Magdalen. 
Or  perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  that  nun,  of  whom 


32  HYPERION 

St.  Gregory  says,  in  his  Dialogues,  that,  having 
greedily  eaten  a  lettuce  in  a  garden  without  mak- 
ing the  sign  of  the  cross,  she  found  herself  soon 
after  possessed  with  a  devil. 

The  probability,  however,  is  that  she  was  look- 
ing at  the  ruined  castles  only,  and  not  to  heaven, 
for  she  soon  began  her  story  and  told  Flemmiug 
how,  "  a  great,  great  many  years  ago,  an  old  man 
lived  in  the  Liebenstein  with  his  two  sons  ;  and 
how  both  the  young  men  loved  the  Lady  Geral- 
dine,  an  orphan,  under  their  father's  care ;  and 
how  the  elder  brother  went  away  in  despair,  and 
the  younger  was  betrothed  to  the  Lady  Geral- 
dine  ;  and  how  they  were  as  happy  as  Aschen- 
puttel  and  the  Prince.  And  then  the  holy  St. 
Bernard  came  and  carried  away  all  the  young 
men  to  the  war,  just  as  Napoleon  did  afterwards  ; 
and  the  young  lord  went  to  the  Holy  Land, 
and  the  Lady  Geraldine  sat  in  her  tower  and 
wept,  and  waited  for  her  lover's  return,  while 
the  old  father  built  the  Sternenfels  for  them  to 
live  in  when  they  were  married.  And  when  it  was 
finished,  the  old  man  died  ;  and  the  elder  brother 
came  back  and  lived  in  the  Liebenstein,  and  took 
care  of  the  gentle  lady.  Erelong  there  came  news 
from  the  Holy  Land  that  the  war  was  over ;  and 
the  heart  of  the  gentle  lady  beat  with  joy,  till  she 
heard  that  her  faithless  lover  was  coming  back 
with  a  Greek  wife,  —  the  wicked  man  I  —  and  then 
she  went  into  a  convent  and  became  a  holy^Tran. 
So  the  young  lord  of  Sternenfels  came  home,  and 
lived  in  his  castle  in  great  splendor  with  the  Greek 
woman,  who  was  a  wicked  woman,  and  did  what 


THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTER  33 

she  ought  not  to  do.  But  the  elder  brother  was 
angry  for  the  wrong  done  the  gentle  lady,  and 
challenged  the  lord  of  Sternenfels  to  single  com- 
bat. And  while  they  were  fighting  with  their 
great  swords  in  the  valley  of  Bornhofen  behind 
the  castle,  the  convent  bells  began  to  ring,  and  the 
Lady  Geraldine  came  forth  with  a  train  of  nuns 
all  dressed  in  white,  and  made  the  brothers  friends 
again,  and  told  them  she  was  the  bride  of  Heaven, 
and  happier  in  her  convent  than  she  could  have 
been  in  the  Liebenstein  or  the  Sternenfels.  And 
when  the  brothers  returned,  they  found  that  the 
false  Greek  wife  had  gone  away  with  another 
knight.  So  they  lived  together  in  peace,  and  were 
never  married.     And  when  they  died  "  — 

"  Lisbeth  !  Lisbeth  !  "  cried  a  sharp  voice  from 
the  shore,  "  Lisbeth !  where  are  you  taking  the 
gentleman  ?  " 

This  recalled  the  poor  girl  to  her  senses ;  and 
she  saw  how  fast  they  were  floating  down  stream. 
For,  in  telling  the  story,  she  had  forgotten  every- 
thing else,  and  the  swift  current  had  swept  them 
down  to  the  tall  walnut-trees  of  Kamp.  They 
landed  in  front  of  the  Capuchin  monastery.  Lis- 
beth led  the  way  through  the  little  village,  and, 
turning  to  the  right,  pointed  up  the  romantic, 
lonely  valley  which  leads  to  the  Liebenstein,  and 
even  offered  to  go  with  him.  But  Flemming  pat- 
ted her  cheek,  and  shook  his  head.  He  went  up 
the  valley  alone. 


34  HYPERION 

CHAPTER  V. 

JEAN    PAUL,    THE   ONLY-ONE. 

It  was  already  night  when  Flemming  crossed 
the  Roman  bridge  over  the  Nahe,  and  entered  the 
town  of  Bingen.  He  stopped  at  the  White  Horse ; 
and,  before  going  to  bed,  looked  out  into  the  dim 
starlight  from  his  window  towards  the  Rhine,  and 
his  heart  leaped  within  him  to  behold  the  bold  out- 
line of  the  neighboring  hills  crested  with  Gothic 
ruins  ;  —  which  in  the  morning  proved  to  be  only 
a  high  slated  roof,  with  fantastic  chimneys. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  frosty,  and  the 
river  tinged  with  gay  colors  by  the  rising  sun.  A 
soft,  thin  vapor  floated  in  the  air.  In  the  sun- 
beams flashed  the  hoar-frost  like  silver  stars,  and 
through  a  long  avenue  of  trees,  whose  dripping 
branches  bent  and  scattered  pearls  before  him, 
Paul  Flemming  journeyed  on  in  triumph. 

The  man  in  the  play  who  wished  for  "  some  forty 
pounds  of  lovely  beef,  placed  in  a  Mediterranean 
Sea  of  brewis,"  might  have  seen  his  ample  desires 
almost  realized  at  the  table  d'hSte  of  the  Rhein- 
ischen  Hof,  in  Mayence,  where  Flemming  dined 
that  day.  At  the  head  of  the  table  sat  a  gentle- 
man with  a  smooth,  broad  forehead  and  large,  in- 
telligent eyes.  He  was  from  Baireuth  in  Fran- 
conia  ;  and  talked  about  poetry  and  Jean  Paul  to 
a  pale,  romantic-looking  lady  on  his  right.  There 
was  music  all  dinner-time,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
hall,  —  a  harp  and  a  horn  and  a  voice,  —  so  that  a 
great  part  of  the  fat  gentleman's  conversation  with 


JEAN  PAUL,   THE   ONLY-ONE  35 

the  pale  lady  was  lost  to  Flemming,  who  sat  op- 
posite to  her,  and  could  look  right  into  her  large, 
melancholy  eyes.  But  what  he  heard  so  much  in- 
terested liim,  —  indeed,  the  very  name  of  the  be- 
loved Jean  Paul  would  have  been  enough  for  this, 
—  that  he  ventm*ed  to  join  in  the  conversation,  and 
asked  the  German  if  he  had  known  the  poet  per-= 
sonally. 

"Yes,  I  knew  him  well,"  replied  the  stranger. 
"I  am  a  native  of  Baireuth,  where  he  passed 
the  best  years  of  his  life.  In  my  mind,  the  man 
and  the  author  are  closely  united.  I  never  read 
a  page  of  his  writings  without  hearing  his  voice, 
and  seeing  his  form  before  me.  There  he  sits, 
with  his  majestic,  mountainous  forehead,  his  mild 
blue  eyes,  and  finely  cut  nose  and  mouth  ;  his  mas- 
sive frame  clad  loosely  and  carelessly  in  an  old 
green  frock,  from  the  pockets  of  which  the  corners 
of  books  project,  and  perhaps  the  end  of  a  loaf  of 
bread  and  the  nose  of  a  bottle  ;  a  straw  hat,  lined 
with  green,  lying  near  him  ;  a  huge  walking-stick 
in  his  hand,  and  at  his  feet  a  white  poodle,  with 
pink  eyes,  and  a  string  round  his  neck.  You 
would  sooner  have  taken  him  for  a  master-carpen- 
ter than  for  a  poet.  Is  he  a  favorite  author  of 
yours  ?  "     Flemming  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  But  a  foreigner  must  find  it  exceedingly  diffi- 
cult to  understand  him,"  said  the  gentleman.  "  It 
is  by  no  means  an  easy  task  for  us  Germans." 

"  I  have  always  observed,"  replied  Flemming, 
"  that  the  true  understanding  and  appreciation  of 
a  poet  depend  more  upon  individual  than  upon 
national  character.     If  there  be  a  sympathy  be- 


36  HYPERION 

tween  the  minds  of  writer  and  reader,  the  bounds 
and  barriers  of  a  foreign  tongue  are  soon  over- 
leaped. If  you  once  understand  an  author's  char- 
acter, the  comprehension  of  his  writings  becomes 
easy." 

"  Very  true,"  replied  the  German ;  "  and  the 
character  of  Eichter  is  too  marked  to  be  easily 
misunderstood.  Its  prominent  traits  are  tender- 
ness and  manliness,  —  qualities  which  are  seldom 
found  united  in  so  high  a  degree  as  in  him.  Over 
all  he  sees,  over  all  he  writes,  are  spread  the 
sunbeams  of  a  cheerful  spirit,  —  the  light  of  inex- 
haustible human  love.  Every  sound  of  human  joy 
and  of  human  sorrow  finds  a  deep-resounding  echo 
in  his  bosom.  In  every  man,  he  loves  his  human- 
ity only,  not  his  superiority.  The  avowed  object 
of  all  his  literary  labors  was  to  raise  up  again  the 
down-sunken  faith  in  God,  Virtue,  and  Immor- 
tality ;  and,  in  an  egotistical,  revolutionary  age,  to 
warm  again  our  human  sympathies,  which  have 
now  grown  cold.  And  not  less  boundless  is  his 
love  for  Nature,  —  for  this  outward,  beautiful 
world.     He  embraces  it  all  in  his  arms." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Flemming,  almost  taking  the 
words  out  of  the  stranger's  mouth,  "  for  in  Ms 
mind  all  things  become  idealized.  He  seems  to 
describe  himself  when  he  describes  the  hero  of  his 
Titan,  as  a  child,  rocking  in  a  high  wind  upon  the 
branches  of  a  full-blossomed  apple-tree,  and  as  its 
summit,  blown  abroad  by  the  wind,  now  sunk  him 
in  deep  green,  and  now  tossed  him  aloft  in  deep 
blue  and  glancing  sunshine,  —  in  his  imagination 
stood  that  tree  gigantic ;  —  it  grew  alone  in   the 


JEAN  PAUL,    THE   ONLY-ONE  37 

universe,  as  if  it  were  the  tree  of  eternal  life ;  its 
roots  struck  down  into  the  abyss ;  the  white  and 
red  clouds  hung  as  blossoms  upon  it ;  the  moon  as 
fruit ;  the  little  stars  sparlded  like  dew,  and  Al- 
bano  reposed  in  its  measureless  summit;  and  a 
storm  swayed  the  summit  out  of  Day  into  Night, 
and  out  of  Night  into  Day." 

"  Yet  the  spirit  of  love,"  interrupted  the  Fran- 
conian,  "  was  not  weakness,  but  strength.  It  was 
united  in  him  with  great  manliness.  The  sword 
of  his  spirit  had  been  forged  and  beaten  by  poverty. 
Its  temper  had  been  tried  by  a  thirty  years'  war. 
It  was  not  broken,  not  even  blunted,  but  rather 
strengthened  and  sharpened,  by  the  blows  it  gave 
and  received.  And^jpossessing  this  noble  spirit  of 
humanity,  endurance,  and  self-denial,  he  made 
literature  his  profession ;  as  if  he  had  been 
divinely  commissioned  to  write.  He  seems  to 
have  cared  for  nothing  else,  to  have  thought  of 
nothing  else,  than  living  quietly  and  making  books. 
He  says  that  he  felt  it  his  duty,  not  to  enjoy,  nor 
to  acquire,  but  to  write  ;  and  boasted  that  he  had 
made  as  many  books  as  he  had  lived  j^ears." 

"  And  what  do  you  Germans  consider  the  promi- 
nent characteristics  of  his  genius?  " 

"  Most  undoubtedly,  his  wild  imagination  and   V 
his   playfulness.      He   throws    over   all   things    a    | 
strange  and  magpie  colorino^.     You  are  startled  at    , 
the  boldness  and  beauty  of  his  figures  and  illus- 
trations, which  are  scattered   everywhere  with  a 
reckless  prodigality ;  multitudinous,  like  the  blos- 
soms of  early  summer,  and  as  fragrant  and  beauti- 
ful.    With  a  thousand  extravasances  are  minsjled 


38  HYPERION 

ten  thousancl  beauties  of  thought  and  expression, 
which  kindle  the  reader's  imagination,  and  lead 
it  onward  in  a  bold  flight,  through  the  glow  of 
sunrise  and  sunset,  and  the  dewy  coldness  and 
"  starlight   of   summer   nights.     He   is    difficult    to 

(understand,  intricate,  strange,  drawing  his  illus- 
trations from  every  by-corner  of  science,  art,  and 
nature,  —  a  comet  among  the  bright  stars  of  Ger- 
man literature.  When  you  read  his  works,  it  is 
as  if  you  were  climbing  a  high  mountain,  in  merry 
company,  to  see  the  sun  rise.  At  times  you  are 
enveloped  in  mist,  the  morning  wind  sweeps  by 
you  with  a  shout,  you  hear  the  far-off  muttering 
thunders.  Wide  beneath  you  spreads  the  land- 
scape, —  field,  meadow,  town,  and  winding  river. 
The  ringing  of  distant  church-bells,  or  the  sound 
of  solemn  village  clock,  reaches  you ;  then  arises 
the  sweet  and  manifold  fragrance  of  flowers,  the 
birds  begin  to  sing,  the  vapors  roll  away,  up 
comes  the  glorious  sun,  you  revel  like  a  lark  in 
the  sunshine  and  bright  blue  heaven,  and  all  is  a 
delirious  dream  of  soul  and  sense,  when  suddenly 
a  friend  at  your  elbow  laughs  aloud,  and  offers 
I  you  a  piece  of  Bologna  sausage.  As  in  real  life, 
so  in  his  writings :  the  serious  and  the  comic,  the 
sublime  and  the  grotesque,  the  pathetic  and  the 
ludicrous,  are  mingled  together.  At  times  he  is 
sententious,  energetic,  simple;  then,  again,  obscure 
and  diffuse.  His  thoughts  ai-e  like  mummies  em- 
balmed in  spices,  and  wrapped  about  with  curious 
envelopments  ;  but  within  these  the  thoughts  them- 
selves are  kings.  At  times  glad,  bcautifiil  images, 
airy  forms,  move  by  you,  graceful,  harmonious; 


JEAN  PAUL,    THE   ONLY-ONE  39 

at  times  the  glaring,  wild-looking  fancies,  chained 
together  by  hyphens,  brackets,  and  dashes,  brave 
and  base,  high  and  low,  all  in  their  motley  dresses, 
go  sweeping  down  the  dusty  page,  like  the  galley- 
slaves  that  sweep  the  streets  of  Rome,  where  you 
may  chance  to  see  the  nobleman  and  the  peasant 
manacled  together." 

Flemming  smiled  at  the  German's  warmth,  to 
which  the  presence  of  the  lady  and  the  Lauben- 
heimer  wine  seemed  each  to  have  contributed  some- 
thing, and  then  said  :  — 

"  Better  an  outlaw  than  not  free !  —  These  are 
his  own  words.  And  thus  he  changes  at  his  will. 
Like  the  God  Thor,  of  the  old  Northern  my- 
thology, he  now  holds  forth  the  seven  stars  in  the 
bright  heaven  above  us,  and  now  hides  himself  in 
clouds,  and  pounds  away  with  his  great  hammer." 

"  And  yet  this  is  not  affectation  in  him,"  re- 
joined the  German.  "  It  is  his  nature,  —  it  is 
Jean  Paul.  And  the  figures  and  ornaments  of  his 
style,  wild,  fantastic,  and  ofttimes  startling,  like 
those  in  Gothic  cathedrals,  are  not  merely  what 
they  seem,  but  massive  coignes  and  buttresses, 
which  support  the  fabric.  Remove  them,  and  the 
roof  and  walls  fall  in.  And  through  these  gar- 
goyles, these  wild  faces,  these  images  of  beasts  and 
men  carved  upon  spouts  and  gutters,  flow  out,  like 
gathei^ed  rain,  the  bright,  abundant  thoughts  that 
have  fallen  from  heaven.  And  all  he  does  is  done 
with  a  kind  of  serious  playfulness.  He  is  a  sea- 
monster,  disporting  himself  on  the  broad  ocean  ; 
his  very  sport  is  earnest ;  there  is  something 
majestic  and  serious  about  it.     In  everything  there 


40  HYPERION 

is  strength,  a  rough  good-nature,  all  sunshine  over- 
head,  and  underneath  the  heavy  moaning  of  the 
sea.  Well  may  he  be  called  '  Jeau  Paul,  the 
Only-One.'  " 

AVith  such  discourse  the  hour  of  dinner  passed  ; 
and  after  dinner  Flemming  went  to  the  cathedral. 
They  were  singing  vespers.  A  beadle,  dressed  in 
blue,  with  a  cocked  hat  and  a  crimson  sash  and 
collar,  was  strutting,  like  a  turkey,  along  the  aisles. 
This  important  gentleman  conducted  Flemming 
through  the  church,  and  showed  him  the  choir, 
with  its  heavy-sculptured  stalls  of  oak,  and  the 
beautiful  figures  in  brown  stone  over  the  bishops' 
tombs.  He  then  led  him,  by  a  side-door,  into  the 
old  and  ruined  cloisters  of  St.  Willigis.  Through 
the  low  Gothic  arches  the  sunshine  streamed  upon 
the  pavement  of  tombstones,  whose  images  and  in- 
scriptions are  mostly  effaced  by  the  footsteps  of 
many  generations.  There  stands  the  tomb  of  Frau- 
enlob,  the  Minnesinger.  His  face  is  sculptured  on 
an  entablature  in  the  wall ;  a  fine,  strongly-marked, 
and  serious  countenance.  Below  it  is  a  bas-relief, 
representing  the  poet's  funeral.  He  is  carried  to 
his  grave  by  ladies,  whose  praise  he  sang,  and 
thereby  won  the  name  of  Frauenlob. 

"  This,  then,"  said  Flemming,  "  is  the  grave, 
not  of  Praise-God  Bare-bones,  but  of  Praise-the- 
Ladies  Meissen,  who  wrote  songs  'somewhat  of 
lust,  and  somewhat  of  love.'  But  where  sleeps  the 
dust  of  his  rival  and  foe,  sweet  Master  Bartholo- 
mew Rainbow  ?  " 

He  meant  this  for  an  aside  ;  but  the  turkey-cock 
picked  it  up,  and  answered  :  — 


JEAN  PAUL,    THE   ONLY-ONE  41 

"  I  do  not  know.  He  did  not  belong  to  this 
parish." 

I  will  not  prolong  this  journey,  for  I  am  weary 
and  way-worn,  and  would  fain  be  at  Heidelberg 
with  my  readers  and  my  hero.  It  was  already 
night  when  he  reached  the  Mauheim  gate,  and 
drove  down  the  long  Hauptstrasse  so  slowly,  that 
it  seemed  to  him  endless.  The  shops  were  lighted 
on  each  side  of  the  street,  and  he  saw  faces  at  the 
windows  here  and  there,  and  figures  passing  in  the 
lamplight,  visible  for  a  moment,  and  then  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  darkness.  The  thoughts  that  filled 
his  mind  were  strange,  as  are  always  the  thoughts 
of  a  traveller  who  enters  for  the  first  time  a  strange 
city.  This  little  world  had  been  going  on  for  cen- 
turies before  he  came,  and  woidd  go  on  for  centu- 
ries after  he  was  gone.  Of  all  the  thousands  who 
inhabited  it,  he  knew  nothing  ;  and  what  knew 
they,  or  thought,  of  the  stranger,  who,  in  that  close 
post-chaise,  weary  with  travel,  and  chilled  by  the 
evening  wind,  was  slowly  rumbling  over  the  paved 
street  ?  Truly,  this  world  can  go  on  without  us,  if 
we  would  but  think  so.  If  it  had  been  a  hearse 
instead  of  a  post-chaise,  it  would  have  been  all  the 
same  to  the  people  of  Heidelberg,  though  by  no 
means  the  same  to  Paul  Flemming. 

But  at  the  farther  end  of  the  city,  near  the 
Castle  and  the  Cai-ls-Thor,  one  warm  heart  was 
waiting  to  receive  him  ;  and  this  was  the  German 
heart  of  his  friend,  the  Baron  of  Hohenfels,  with 
whom  he  was  to  pass  the  winter  in  Heidelberg,  No 
sooner  had  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  iron-grated 
gate,  and  the  postilion  blown  his  horn,  to  announce 


42  HYPERION 

the  arrival  of  a  traveller,  than  the  pjaron  was  seen 
among  the  servants  at  the  door ;  and,  a  few  mo- 
ments afterwards,  the  two  long-absent  friends  were 
in  each  other's  arms,  and  Flemming  received  a  kiss 
upon  each  cheek,  and  another  on  the  mouth,  as  a 
pledge  and  seal  of  the  German's  friendship.  They 
held  each  other  long  by  the  hand,  and  looked  into 
each  other's  face,  and  saw  themselves  in  each 
other's  eyes,  both  literally  and  figuratively ;  lit- 
erally, inasmuch  as  the  images  were  there,  and 
figuratively,  inasmuch  as  each  was  imagining  what 
the  other  thought  of  him,  after  the  lapse  of  some 
years.  In  friendly  hopes  and  questionings  and 
answers,  the  evening  glided  away  at  the  supper- 
table,  where  many  more  things  were  discussed  than 
the  roasted  hare  and  the  Johannisberger  ;  and  they 
sat  late  into  the  night,  conversing  of  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  and  delights  which  fill  the  hearts  of 
young  men  who  have  already  enjoyed  and  suffered, 
and  hoped  and  been  disappointed. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

HEIDELBERG    AND  THE   BARON. 

Hiffh  and  hoar  on  the  forehead  of  the  Jetten- 
biihl  stands  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg.  Behind  it 
rise  the  oak-crested  hills  of  the  Geissberg  and  the 
Kaiserstulil ;  and  in  front,  from  the  wide  terrace 
of  masonry,  you  can  almost  throw  a  stone  upon  the 
roofs  of  the  toMTi,  so  close  do  they  lie  beneath. 
Above  this  terrace  rises  the  broad  front  of  the 
chapel  of  Saint  Udalrich.     On  the  left  stands  the 


HEIDELBERG  AND   THE  BARON  43 

slender  octagon  tower  of  the  horologe ;  and  on 
the  right,  a  huge  round  tower,  battered  and  shat- 
tered by  the  mace  of  war,  shores  up  with  its  broad 
shoulders  the  beautiful  palace  and  garden-terrace 
of  Elizabeth,  wife  of  the  Count  Palatine  Freder- 
ick. In  the  rear  are  older  palaces  and  towers, 
forming  a  vast,  irregular  quadrangle ;  —  Rodolph's 
ancient  castle,  with  its  Gothic  gloriette  and  fantas- 
tic gables  ;  the  Giant's  Tower,  guarding  the  draw- 
bridge over  the  moat ;  the  Rent  Tower,  with  the 
linden-trees  growing  on  its  summit ;  and  the  mag- 
nificent Rittersaal  of  Otho-Henry,  Count  Palatine 
of  the  Rhine  and  Grand  Seneschal  of  the  Holy 
Roman  Empire.  From  the  gardens  behind  the 
castle,  you  pass  under  the  archway  of  the  Giant's 
Tower  into  the  great  courtyard.  The  diverse  ar- 
chitecture of  different  ages  strikes  the  eye,  and 
curious  sculptures.  In  niches  on  the  wall  of  Saint 
Udalrich's  chapel  stand  rows  of  knights  in  armor, 
broken  and  dismembered;  and  on  the  front  of 
Otho's  Rittersaal,  the  heroes  of  Jewish  history  and 
classic  fable.  You  enter  the  open  and  desolate 
chambers  of  the  ruin,  and  on  every  side  are  me- 
dallions and  family  arms ;  the  Globe  of  the  Em- 
pire and  the  Golden  Fleece,  or  the  Eagle  of  the 
Cjesars,  resting  on  the  escutcheons  of  Bavaria  and 
the  Palatinate.  Over  the  windows  and  doorways 
and  chimney-jjieces  are  sculptures  and  mouldings 
of  exquisite  workmansliip  ;  and  the  eye  is  bewil- 
dered by  the  profusion  of  caryatides,  and  ara- 
besques, and  rosettes,  and  fan-like  flutings,  and 
garlands  of  fruits  and  flowers  and  acorns,  and  bul- 
locks' heads  with  draperies  of  foliage,  and  muzzles 


44  HYPERION 

of  lions,  holding  rings  in  their  teeth.  The  cun- 
ning luuul  of  Art  was  busy  for  six  centuries  in 
raising  and  adorning  these  walls ;  the  mailed  hands 
of  Time  and  War  have  defaced  and  overthrown 
them  in  less  than  two.  Next  to  the  Alhanibra  of 
Granada,  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg  is  the  most 
magnificent  ruin  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

In  the  valley  below  flows  the  rushing  stream 
of  the  Neckar.  Close  from  its  margin,  on  the 
opposite  side,  rises  the  Mountain  of  All-Saints, 
crowned  with  the  ruins  of  a  convent,  and  up  the 
valley  stretches  the  mountain-curtain  of  the  Oden- 
wald.  So  close  and  many  are  the  hills  which  east- 
ward shut  the  valley  in,  that  the  river  seems  a 
lake.  But  westward  it  opens  upon  the  broad 
plain  of  the  Rhine,  like  the  mouth  of  a  trumpet, 
and  like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet  is  at  times  the 
wintry  wind  through  this  narrow  mountain-pass. 
The  blue  Alsatian  hills  rise  beyond,  and  on  a 
j)latform  or  strip  of  level  land,  between  the  Neckar 
and  the.  mountains,  right  under  the  castle,  stands 
the  town  of  Heidelberg ;  as  the  old  song  says,  "  a 
pleasant  town,  when  it  has  done  raining." 

Something  of  this  did  Paul  Flemming  behold, 
when  he  rose  the  next  morninc:  and  looked  from 
bis  window.  It  was  a  warm,  vapory  morning,  and 
a  struggle  was  going  on  between  the  mist  and  the 
rising  sun.  The  sun  had  taken  the  hill-tops,  but 
the  mist  still  kept  possession  of  the  valley  and 
the  town.  The  steeple  of  the  great  church  rose 
through  a  dense  mass  of  snow-white  clouds,  and 
on  the  hills  the  dim  vapors  were  rolling  across  the 
windows  of  the  ruined  castle,  like  the  fiery  smoke 


HEIDELBERG  AND   THE  BARON  45 

o£  a  fierce  conflagration.  It  seemed  to  him  an 
image  of  the  rising  of  the  sun  of  Truth  on  a  be- 
nighted world ;  its  light  streamed  through  the 
ruins  of  centuries ;  and,  down  in  the  Valley  of 
Time,  the  cross  on  the  Christian  church  caught  its 
rays,  though  the  priests  were  singing  in  mist  and 
darkness  below.  » 

In  the  warm  breakfast-room  he  found  the  Baron 
waiting  for  him.  He  was  lying  upon  a  sofa,  in 
morning  gown  and  purple-velvet  slippers,  both 
with  flowers  upon  them.  He  had  a  guitar  in  his 
hand,  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  at  the  same  time 
smoking,  playing,  and  hmnming  his  favorite  song 
from  Goethe  :  — 

The  water  rushed,  the  water  swelled, 
A  fisher  sat  thereby. 

Memming  could  hardly  refrain  from  laughing  at 
the  sight  of  his  friend,  and  told  him  it  reminded 
him  of  a  street-musician  he  once  saw  in  Aix-la- 
Chapelle,  who  was  plajang  upon  six  instruments  at 
once ;  having  a  helmet  with  bells  on  his  head,  a 
Pan's-reed  in  his  cravat,  a  violin  in  his  hand,  a 
triangle  on  his  knee,  cymbals  on  his  heels,  and  on 
his  back  a  bass-drum,  which  he  played  with  his 
elbows.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  Baron  of  Hohenfels 
was  rather  a  miscellaneous  youth,  rather  a  univer- 
sal genius.  He  pursued  all  things  with  eagerness, 
but  for  a  short  time  only :  music,  poetry,  painting, 
pleasure,  even  the  study  of  the  Pandects.  His 
feelings  were  keenly  alive  to  the  enjoyment  of  life. 
His  great  defect  was,  that  he  was  too  much  in  love  i 


with  human  nature.     But  by  the  power  of  imagina- 
tion, in  him,  the  bearded  goat  was  changed  to  a 


46  HYPERION 

bright  Capricornus  ;  no  longer  an  animal  on  earth, 
but  a  constellation  in  heaven.  An  easy  and  indo- 
lent disposition  made  him  gentle  and  childlike  in 
his  manners,  and,  in  short,  the  beauty  of  his  char- 
acter, like  that  of  the  precious  opal,  was  owing  to 
a  defect  in  its  organization.  His  person  was  tall 
and  slightly  built ;  his  hair  light ;  and  his  eyes 
blue,  and  as  beautiful  as  those  of  a  girl.  In  the 
tones  of  his  voice  there  was  something  indescriba- 
bly gentle  and  winning,  and  he  spoke  the  Ger- 
man language  with  the  soft,  musical  accent  of  his 
native  province  of  Kurland.  In  his  manners,  if 
he  had  not  "  Antinous'  easy  sway,"  he  had  at  least 
an  easy  sway  of  his  own.  Such,  in  few  words, 
was  the  friend  of  Flemming. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  Heidelberg  and  the 
old  castle  ?  "  said  he,  as  they  seated  themselves  at 
the  breakfast-table. 

"  Last  night  the  town  seemed  very  long  to  me," 
replied  Flemming ;  "  and  as  to  the  castle,  I  have 
as  yet  had  but  a  glimpse  of  it  througli  the  mist. 
They  tell  me  there  is  nothing  finer  in  its  way  than 
this  magnificent  ruin,  and  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall 
find  it  so.  Only  I  wish  the  stone  were  gray,  and 
not  red.  But,  red  or  gray,  I  foresee  that  I  shall 
waste  many  a  long  hour  in  its  desolate  halls. 
Pray,  does  anybody  live  there  nowadays?" 

"  Nobody,"  answered  the  Baron,  "  but  the  man 
who  shows  the  Heidelberg  Tun,  and  a  Frenchman, 
who  has  been  there  sketching  ever  since  the  year 
eighteen  hundred  and  ten.  He  has,  moreover, 
written  a  super-magnificent  description  of  the  ruin, 
in  which  he  says,  that  during  the  day  only  birds 


HEIDELBERG  AND   THE  BARON         47 

of  prey  disturb  it  with  their  piercing  cries,  and  at 
night,  screech  owls,  and  other  fallow  deer.  You 
must  buy  his  book  and  his  sketches." 

"  Yes,  the  quotation  and  the  tone  of  your  voice 
will  certainly  persuade  me  so  to  do." 

"  Take  his  or  none,  my  friend,  for  you  will  find 
no  others.  And  seriously,  his  sketches  are  very 
good.  There  is  one  on  the  wall  there,  which  is 
beautiful,  save  and  except  that  straddle-bug  figure 
among  the  bushes  in  the  corner." 

"  But  is  there  no  ghost,  no  haunted  chamber  in 
the  old  castle  ?  "  asked  Flemming,  after  casting  a 
hasty  glance  at  the  picture. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  replied  the  Baron ;  "  there  are 
two.  There  is  the  ghost  of  the  Virgin  Mary  in 
Ruprecht's  Tower,  and  the  Devil  in  the  Dungeon." 

"  Ha !  that  is  grand !  "  exclaimed  Flemming, 
with  evident  delight.  "  Tell  me  the  whole  story, 
quickly  !     I  am  as  curious  as  a  child." 

"  It  is  a  tale  of  the  times  of  Louis  le  Debon- 
naire,"  said  the  Baron,  with  a  smile ;  "  a  mouldy 
tradition  of  a  credulous  age.  His  brother  Fred- 
erick lived  here  in  the  castle  with  him,  and  had 
a  flirtation  with  Leonore  von  Luzelstein,  a  lady 
of  the  court,  whom  he  afterwards  despised,  and 
was  consequently  most  cordially  hated  by  her. 
From  political  motives,  he  was  equally  hateful  to 
certain  petty  German  tyrants,  who,  in  order  to  ef- 
fect his  ruin,  accused  him  of  heresy.  But  his 
brother  Louis  would  not  deliver  him  up  to  their 
fury,  and  they  resolved  to  effect  by  stratagem 
what  they  could  not  by  intrigue.  Accordingly, 
Leonore  von  Luzelstein,  disguised  as  the  Virgin 


48  HYPERION 

Mary,  and  the  father  confessor  of  the  Elector,  In 
the  costume  of  Satan,  made  their  appearance  in 
the  Elector's  bedchamber  at  midnight,  and  fright- 
ened him  so  horribly,  that  he  consented  to  deliver 
up  his  brother  into  the  hands  of  two  Black 
Knights,  who  pretended  to  be  ambassadors  from 
the  Vehm-Gericht.  They  proceeded  together  to 
Frederick's  chamber,  where,  luckily,  old  Gemmin- 
gen,  a  brave  soldier,  kept  guard  behind  the  arras. 
The  monk  went  foremost  in  his  Satanic  garb,  but 
no  sooner  had  he  set  foot  in  the  prince's  bedcham- 
ber, than  the  brave  Gemmingen  drew  his  sword, 
and  said  quaintly,  '  Die,  wretch ! '  and  so  he  died. 
The  I'est  took  to  their  heels,  and  were  heard  of  no 
more.  And  now  the  souls  of  Leonore  and  the 
monk  haunt  the  scene  of  their  midnight  crime. 
You  will  find  the  story  in  the  Frenchman's  book, 
worked  up  with  a  kind  of  i-ed-morocco  and  burnt- 
cork  sublimity,  and  great  melodramatic  clanking 
of  chains,  and  hooting  of  owls,  and  other  fallow 
deer!" 

"  After  breakfast,"  said  Flemming,  "  we  will  go 
up  to  the  castle.  I  must  get  acquainted  vAih.  this 
mirror  of  owls,  this  modern  Till  Eulenspiegel. 
See  what  a  glorious  morning  we  have !  It  is  truly 
a  wondrous  winter  !  what  summer  sunshine  !  what 
soft  Venetian  fogs  !  How  the  wanton,  treacherous 
air  coquets  with  the  old  graybeard  trees !  Such 
weather  makes  the  grass  and  our  beards  grow 
apace  !  But  we  have  an  old  saying  in  English, 
that  winter  never  rots  in  the  sky.  So  he  will  come 
down  at  last  in  his  old-fashioned  mealy  coat.  AVe 
Bhall  have  snow  in  spring ;  and  the  blossoms  will 


LIVES   OF  SCHOLARS  49 

be  all  snow-flakes.  And  afterwards  a  summer, 
which  will  be  no  summer,  but,  as  Jean  Paul  says, 
only  a  winter  painted  green.     Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  Unless  I  am  much  deceived  in  the  climate  of 
Heidelberg,"  replied  the  Baron,  "  we  shall  not 
have  to  wait  long  for  snow.  We  have  sudden 
changes  here,  and  I  should  not  marvel  much  if  it 
snowed  before  night." 

"  The  greater  reason  for  making  good  use  of  the 
morning  sunshine,  then.  Let  us  hasten  to  the 
castle,  after  which  my  heart  yearns." 

CHAPTER  VII. 

LIVES   OF   SCH0LAE8. 

The  forebodings  of  the  Baron  proved  true.  In 
the  afternoon  the  weather  changed.  The  western 
wind  began  to  blow,  and  drew  a  cloud-veil  over  the 
face  of  Heaven,  as  a  breath  does  over  the  human 
face  in  a  mirror.  Soon  the  snow  began  to  fall. 
Athwart  the  distant  landscape  it  swept  like  a  white 
mist.  The  storm-wind  came  from  the  Alsatian 
hills,  and  struck  the  dense  clouds  aslant  through 
the  air.  And  ever  faster  fell  the  snow,  a  roaring 
torrent  from  those  mountainous  clouds.  The  set- 
ting sun  glared  wildly  from  the  summit  of  the  hills, 
and  sank  like  a  burning  ship  at  sea,  wrecked  in 
the  tempest.  Thus  the  evening  set  in  ;  and  winter 
stood  at  the  gate  wagging  his  white  and  shaggy 
beard,  like  an  old  harper  chanting  an  old  rhyme  : 
**  How  cold  it  is  !  how  cold  it  is  !  " 

"  I  like  such  a  storm  as  this,"  said  Flemming, 


50  HYPERION 

who  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  into  the 
tempest  and  the  gathering  darkness.  "  The  silent 
falling  of  snow  is  to  nie  one  of  the  most  solemn 
things  in  nature.  The  fall  of  autumnal  leaves  does 
not  so  much  affect  me.  But  the  driving  storm  is 
grand.  It  startles  me  ;  it  awakens  me.  It  is  wild 
and  woful,  like  my  own  soul.  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing of  the  sea  ;  how  the  waves  run  and  toss  their 
arms  about,  —  and  the  wind  plays  on  those  great 
sonorous  harps,  the  shrouds  and  masts  of  ships. 
Winter  is  here  in  earnest !  How  the  old  churl 
whistles  and  threshes  the  snow!  Sleet  and  rain 
are  falling  too.  Already  the  trees  are  bearded 
with  icicles,  and  the  two  broad  branches  of  yon- 
der pine  look  like  the  white  mustache  of  some  old 
German  baron." 

"  And  to-morrow  it  will  look  more  wintry  still," 
said  his  friend.  "  We  shall  wake  up  and  find  that 
tlie  frost-spirit  has  been  at  work  all  night  building 
Gothic  cathedrals  on  our  windows,  just  as  the  Devil 
built  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne.  So  draw  the  cur- 
tains, and  come,  sit  here  by  the  warm  fire." 

"  And  now,"  said  Flemming,  having  done  as  his 
friend  desired,  "  tell  me  something  of  Heidelberg 
and  its  University.  I  suppose  we  shall  lead  about 
as  solitary  and  studious  a  life  here  as  we  did  of 
yore  in  little  Gottingen,  with  nothing  to  amuse  us, 
save  our  own  day-dreams." 

"  Pretty  much  so,"  replied  the  Baron  ;  "  which 
cannot  fail  to  please  you,  since  you  are  in  pursuit 
of  tranquillity.  As  to  the  University,  it  is,  as  you 
know,  one  of  the  oldest  in  Germany.  It  was 
founded  in   the  fourteenth  century  by  the  Count 


LIVES  OF  SCHOLARS  61 

Palatine  Ruprecht,  and  had  in  the  first  year  more 
than  five  hundred  students,  all  busily  committing 
to  memory,  after  the  old  scholastic  wise,  the  rules 
of  grammar  versified  by  Alexander  de  Villa  Dei, 
and  the  extracts  made  by  Peter  the  Spaniard  from 
Michel  Psellus's  Synopsis  of  Aristotle's  Organon, 
and  the  Categories,  with  Porphyry's  Commentaries . 
Trvdy,  I  do  not  much  wonder  that  Erigena  Scotus 
should  have  been  put  to  death  by  his  scholars  with 
their  penknives.  They  must  have  been  pushed  to 
the  very  verge  of  despair." 

"  What  a  strange  picture  a  university  presents 
to  the  imagination  !  The  lives  of  scholars  in  their 
cloistered  stillness  ;  —  literary  men  of  retired 
habits,  and  professors  who  study  sixteen  hours  a 
day,  and  never  see  the  world  but  on  a  Sunday. 
Nature  has,  no  doubt  for  some  wise  purpose,  placed 
in  their  hearts  this  love  of  literary  labor  and  se- 
clusion. Otherwise,  who  would  feed  the  undying 
lamp  of  thought  ?  But  for  such  men  as  these,  a 
blast  of  wind  through  the  chinks  and  crannies  of 
this  old  world,  or  the  flapping  of  a  conqueror's 
banner,  would  blow  it  out  forev^er.  The  light  of 
the  soul  is  easily  extinguished.  And  whenever  I 
reflect  upon  these  things,  I  become  aware  of  the 
great  importance,  in  a  nation's  history,  of  the  in- 
dividual fame  of  scholars  and  literary  men,  I  fear 
that  it  is  far  greater  than  the  world  is  willing  to 
acknowledge,  or,  perhaps  I  should  say,  than  the 
world  has  thought  of  acknowledging.  Blot  out  ' 
from  England's  history  the  names  of  Chaucer, 
Shakespeai'C,  Spenser,  and  Milton  only,  and  how 
much  of  her  glory  would  you  blot  out  with  them ! 


52  HYPERION 

Take  from  Italy  such  names  as  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Boccaccio,  Michel  Angelo,  and  liaphael,  and  how 
much  would  be  wanting  to  the  completeness  of  her 
glory  !  How  would  the  history  of  Spain  look,  if 
the  leaves  were  torn  out  on  which  are  written  the 
names  of  Cervantes,  Lope  de  Vega,  and  Calderon  ? 
What  would  be  the  fame  of  Portugal,  without  her 
Camoens ;  of  France,  without  her  Racine,  and 
Rabelais,  and  Voltaire  ;  or  of  Germany,  without 
her  Martin  Luther,  her  Goethe,  and  her  Schiller  ? 
Nay,  what  were  the  nations  of  old,  without  their 
philosophers,  poets,  and  historians  ?  Tell  me,  do 
not  these  men,  in  all  ages  and  in  all  places,  embla- 
zon with  bright  colors  the  armorial  bearings  of 
their  country  ?  Yes,  and  far  more  than  this  ;  for 
in  all  ages  and  in  all  places  they  give  humanity 
assurance  of  its  greatness,  and  say,  '  Call  not  this 
time  or  people  wholly  barbarous ;  for  thus  much, 
even  then  and  there,  could  the  human  mind 
achieve ! '  But  the  boisterous  world  has  hardly 
thought  of  acknowledging  all  this.  Therein  it  has 
shown  itself  somewhat  ungrateful.  Else,  whence 
the  great  reproach,  the  general  scorn,  the  loud  de- 
rision, with  which,  to  take  a  familiar  example,  the 
monks  of  the  Middle  Ages  are  regarded  ?  That 
they  slept  their  lives  away  is  most  untrue.  For  in 
an  age  when  books  were  few,  —  so  few,  so  precious, 
that  they  were  often  chained  to  their  oaken  shelves 
with  iron  chains,  like  galley-slaves  to  their  benches, 
• —  these  men,  with  their  laborious  hands,  copied 
upon  parchment  all  the  lore  and  wisdom  of  the 
past,  and  transmitted  it  to  us.  Perhaj^s  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say,  that,  but  for  these  monks,  not 


LIVES  OF  SCHOLARS  53 

one  line  of  the  classics  would  have  reached  our 
day.  Surely,  then,  we  can  pardon  something  to 
those  superstitious  ages,  perhaps  even  the  mysticism 
of  the  scholastic  philosophy  ;  since,  after  all,  we 
can  find  no  harm  in  it,  only  the  mistaking  of  the 
possible  for  the  real,  and  the  high  aspirings  of  the 
human  mind  after  a  long^-souoht  and  unknown 
somewhat.  I  think  the  name  of  Martin  Luther, 
the  monk  of  Wittenberg,  alone  sufficient  to  redeem 
all  monkhood  from  the  reproach  of  laziness.  If 
this  will  not,  perhaps  the  vast  folios  of  Thomas 
Aquinas  wiU  ;  or  the  countless  manuscripts,  still 
treasured  in  old  libraries,  whose  yellow  and 
wrinkled  pages  remind  one  of  the  hands  that 
wrote  them  and  the  faces  that  once  bent  over 
them." 

"An  eloquent  homily,"  said  the  Baron,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  a  most  touching  appeal  in  behalf  of  suffer- 
ing humanity !  For  my  part,  I  am  no  friend  of 
this  entire  seclusion  from  the  world.  It  has  a  very 
injurious  effect  on  the  mind  of  a  scholar.  The 
Chinese  proverb  is  true :  a  single  conversation 
across  the  table  with  a  wise  man  is  better  than  ten 
years'  mere  study  of  books.  I  have  known  some 
of  these  literary  men  who  thus  shut  themselves  up 
from  the  world.  Their  minds  never  come  in  con- 
tact with  those  of  their  fellow-men.  They  read 
little.  They  think  much.  They  are  mere  dream- 
ers. They  know  not  what  is  new  nor  what  is  old. 
They  often  strike  upon  trains  of  thought,  which 
stand  written  in  good  authors  some  century  or  so 
back,  and  are  even  current  in  the  mouths  of  men 
around  them.     But  they  know  it  not,  and  imagine 


54  HYPERION 

they  arc  brincjing  forward  something  very  original, 
when  they  publish  their  thoughts." 

"  It  reminds  me,"  replied  Flemming,  "  of  what 
Dr.  Johnson  said  of  Goldsmith,  when  he  proposed 
to  travel  abroad  in  order  to  bring  home  improve- 
ments :  '  He  will  bring  home  a  wheelbarrow,  and 
call  that  an  improvement.'  It  is  unfortunately  the 
same  with  some  of  these  scholars." 

"  And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  said  the  Baron,  "  that, 
in  solitude,  some  fixed  idea  will  often  take  root  in 
the  mind,  and.  grow  till  it  overshadow  all  one's 
thoughts.  To  this  must  all  opinions  come ;  no 
thought  can  enter  there,  which  shall  not  be  wedded 
to  the  fixed  idea.  There  it  remains  and  grows.  It 
is  like  the  watchman's  wife,  in  the  Tower  of  Wai- 
blingen,  who  grew  to  such  a  size,  that  she  could 
not  get  down  the  narrow  staircase,  and  when  her 
husband  died,  his  successor  was  forced  to  marry 
the  fat  widow  in  the  Tower." 

"I  remember  an  old  English  comedy,"  said 
Flemming,  laughing,  "in  which  a  scholar  is  de- 
scribed as  a  creature  that  can  strike  fii-e  in  the 
morning  at  his  tinder-box,  —  put  on  a  pair  of  lined 
slippers,  —  sit  ruminating  till  dinner,  and  then  go 
to  his  meat  when  the  bell  rings  ;  —  one  that  hath 
a  peculiar  gift  in  a  cough,  and  a  license  to  spit ;  — 
or,  if  you  will  have  him  defined  by  negatives,  he 
is  one  that  cannot  make  a  good  leg,  —  one  that 
cannot  eat  a  mess  of  broth  cleanly.  What  think 
you  of  that  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  as  people  are  always  represented 
in  English  comedy,"  said  the  Baron.  "  The  poi> 
trait  is  overcharged,  —  caricatured." 


LIVES   OF  SCHOLARS  55 

"  And  yet,"  continued  Flemming,  "  no  longer 
ago  than  yesterday,  in  the  preface  of  a  work  by 
a  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  the  University  of 
Halle,  I  read  this  passage." 

He  opened  a  book  and  read  :  — 

"  Here  in  Halle,  where  we  have  no  public  garden 
and  no  Tivoli,  no  London  Exchange,  no  Paris 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  no  Berlin  nor  Vienna  the- 
atres, no  Strasburg  Minster  nor  Salzburg  Alps,  no 
Grecian  ruins  nor  fantastic  Catholicism,  —  in  fine, 
nothing,  which,  after  one's  daily  task  is  finished, 
can  divert  and  refresh  him,  without  his  knowing 
or  caring  how,  —  I  consider  the  sight  of  a  proof- 
sheet  quite  as  delightfid  as  a  walk  in  the  Prater  of 
Vienna.  I  fill  my  pipe  very  quietly,  take  out  my 
inkstand  and  pens,  seat  myself  in  the  corner  of  my 
sofa,  read,  correct,  and  now  for  the  first  time  really 
set  about  thinking  what  I  have  written.  To  see 
this  origin  of  a  book,  this  metamorjjhosis  of  man- 
.uscript  into  print,  is  a  delight  to  which  I  give 
myself  up  entirely.  Look  you,  —  this  melancholy 
pleasure,  which  would  have  furnished  the  departed 
Voss  with  worthy  matter  for  more  than  one  blessed 
Idyl  (the  more  so,  as  on  such  occasions  I  am  gen- 
erally arrayed  in  a  morning  gown,  though,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  not  a  calamanco  one,  with  great  flow- 
ers), —  this  melancholy  pleasure  has  already  grown 
here  in  Halle  to  a  sweet,  pedantic  habit.  Since  I 
began  my  hermit's  life  here,  I  have  been  printing ; 
and  so  long  as  I  remain  here,  I  shall  keep  on  print- 
ing. In  all  probability,  I  shall  die  with  a  proof- 
sheet  in  my  hand." 

"  This,"  said  Flemming,  closing  the  book,  "  is  no 


56  HYPERION 

caricature  by  a  writer  of  comedy,  but  a  portrait  by 
a  man's  own  hand.  We  can  see  by  it  how  easily, 
under  certain  circumstances,  one  may  glide  into 
hal)its  of  seclusion,  and  in  a  kind  of  undress,  slip- 
shod hardihood,  with  a  pipe  and  a  proof-sheet, 
defy  the  world.  Into  this  state  scholars  have  too 
often  fallen,  thus  giving  some  ground  for  the 
prevalent  opinion  that  scholarship  and  rusticity 
are  inseparable.  To  me,  I  confess,  it  is  painful  to 
see  the  scholar  and  the  world  assume  so  often  a 
hostile  attitude,  and  set  each  other  at  defiance. 
Surely,  it  is  a  characteristic  trait  of  a  great  and 
liberal  mind,  that  it  recognizes  humanity  in  all  its 
forms  and  conditions.  I  am  a  student  and  always, 
when  I  sit  alone  at  night,  I  recognize  the  divin- 
ity of  the  student,  as  she  reveals  herself  to  me  in 
the  flame  of  the  midnight  lamp.  But,  because 
solitude  and  books  are  not  unpleasant  to  me, — 
nay,  wished  for,  sought  after,  —  shall  I  say  to  my 
brother.  Thou  fool !  Shall  I  take  the  world  by 
the  beard,  and  say.  Thou  art  old,  and  mad  !  Shall 
I  look  society  in  the  face,  and  say,  Thou  art  heart- 
less !  —  Heartless  !  Beware  of  that  word  !  The 
good  Jean  Paul  says  very  wisely  that  '  Life  in 
every  shape  should  be  precious  to  us,  for  the  same 
reason  that  the  Turks  carefully  collect  every  scrap 
of  paper  that  come§  in  their  way,  because  the  name 
of  God  may  be  written  upon  it.'  Nothing  is  more 
true  than  this,  yet  nothing  more  neglected." 

"  If  it  be  painful  to  see  this  misunderstanding 
between  scholars  and  the  world,"  said  the  Baron, 
"  I  think  it  is  still  more  painful  to  see  the  pri- 
vate sufferings  of   authors  by  profession.      How 


LIVES   OF  SCHOLARS  67 

many  have  languished  in  poverty,  how  many  died 
broken-hearted,  how  many  gone  mad  with  over- 
excitement  and  disapi^ointed  hopes !  How  in- 
structive and  painfully  interesting  are  their  lives  ! 
with  so  many  weaknesses,  so  much  to  pardon,  so 
much  to  pity,  so  much  to  admire  !  I  think  he  was 
not  so  far  out  of  the  way  who  said  that,  next  to 
the  Newgate  Calendar,  the  Biography  of  Authors 
is  the  most  sickening  chapter  in  the  history  of 
man." 

"  It  is  indeed  enough  to  make  one's  heart  ache  !  " 
interrupted  Flemming.  "  Only  think  of  Johnson 
and  Savage,  rambling  about  the  streets  of  London 
at  midnight,  without  a  place  to  sleep  in ;  Otway 
starved  to  death  ;  Collins  mad,  and  howling  like  a 
dog,  through  the  aisles  of  Chichester  Cathedral,  at 
the  sound  of  church  music  !  and  Goldsmith,  strut- 
ting up  Fleet  Street  in  his  peach-blossom  coat,  to 
knock  a  bookseller  over  the  pate  with  one  of  his 
own  volumes ;  and  then,  in  his  poverty,  about  to 
marry  his  landlady  in  Green  Arbor  Court." 

"  A  life  of  sorrow  and  privation,  a  hard  life  in-  \ 
deed,   do   these   poor  devil   authors  have  of   it," 
replied  the  Baron ;  "  and  then  at  last    must  get 
them  to  the  workhouse,  or  creep  away  into  some 
hospital  to  die." 

"  After  all,"  said  Flemming,  with  a  sigh,  "  pov- 
erty is  not  a  ci'ime." 

"  But  something  worse,"  interrupted  the  Baron  ; 
"  as  Dufresny  said,  when  he  married  his  laundress, 
because  he  could  not  pay  her  bill.  He  was  the 
author,  as  you  know,  of  the  opera  of  Lot,  at  whose 
representation  the  great  pun  was  made  ;  —  I  say 


58  HYPERION 

the  great  pun,  as  we  say  the  great  Tun  of  Heidel« 
berg.  As  one  of  the  performers  was  singing  the 
line,  '  L'amoiir  a  vaincu  Loih^  (vingt  culottes') 
a  voice  from  the  pit  cried  out,  '  Quil  en  donne 
une  a  Vauteur  !  '  " 

Flemming  laughed  at  the  unseasonable  jest; 
and  then,  after  a  short  pause,  continued :  — 

"  And  yet,  if  you  look  closely  at  the  causes  of 
these  calamities  of  authors,  you  wdll  find  that  many 
(     of  them  spring  from  false  and  exaggerated  ideas 
1     of  poetry  and  the  poetic  character ;  and  from  dis- 
»     dain  of  common  sense,  upon  which  all  character 
I     worth  having  is  founded.     This  comes  from  keep- 
ing aloof  from  the  world,  apart  from  our  fellow- 
men,  disdainful  of  society,  as  frivolous.      By  too 
much  sitting  still  the  body  becomes  unhealthy,  and^ 
soon  the  mind.     This  is  Nature's  law.     She  w^U 
never  see  her  children  wronged.      If   the   mind, 
which  rules  the  body,  ever  forgets  itself  so  far  as 
to  trample  upon  its  slave,  the  slave  is  never  gen- 
erous enough  to  forgive  the  injury,  but  will  rise 
and  smite  its  oppressor.     Thus  has  many  a  mon- 
arch mind  been  dethroned." 

"  After  all,"  said  the  Baron,  "  we  must  pardon 
much  to  men  of  genius.  A  delicate  organization 
renders  them  keenly  susceptible  to  pain  and  pleas- 
ure. And  then  they  idealize  everything ;  and,  in 
the  moonlight  of  fancy,  even  the  deformity  of  vice 
seems  beautiful." 

"And  this  you  think  should  be  forgiven?" 

"  At  all  events,  it  is  forgiven.  The  world  loves 
a  spice  of  wickedness.  Talk  as  you  w411  about 
principle,  impulse  is  more  attractive,  even  when  it 


LITERARY  FAME  69 

goes  too  far.  The  passions  of  youth,  like  unhooded 
hawks,  fly  high,  with  musical  bells  upon  their 
jesses,  and  we  forget  the  cruelty  of  the  sport  in 
the  dauntless  bearing  of  the  gallant  bird." 

"  And  thus  do  the  world  and  society  corrupt  the 
scholar  !  "  exclaimed  Flemming. 

Here  the  Baron  rang,  and  ordered  a  bottle  of 
Prince  Metternieh.  He  then  very  slowly  filled 
his  pipe,  and  began  to  smoke.  Flemming  was 
lost  iu  a  day-dream. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LITERARY   FAME. 

Time  has  a  Doomsday-Book,  upon  whose  pages 
he  is  continually  recording  illustrious  names.  But 
as  often  as  a  new  name  is  written  there,  an  old  one 
disappears.  Only  a  few  stand  in  illuminated  char- 
acters, never  to  be  effaced.  These  are  the  high 
nobility  of  Nature,  —  Lords  of  the  Public  Domain 
of  Thought.  Posterity  shall  never  question  their 
titles.  But  those  whose  fame  lives  only  in  the  in- 
discreet opinion  of  unwise  men  must  soon  be  as 
well  forgotten  as  if  they  had  never  been.  To  this 
great  oblivion  must  most  men  come.  It  is  better, 
therefore,  that  they  should  soon  make  up  their 
minds  to  this,  —  well  knowing  that,  as  their  bodies 
must  erelong  be  resolved  into  dust  again,  and  their 
graves  tell  no  tales  of  them,  so  must  their  names 
likewise  be  utterly  forgotten,  and  their  most  cher- 
ished thoughts,  purposes,  and  opinions  have  no 
longer  an  individual  being   among   men,  but  be 


60 


HYPERION 


resolved  and  incorporated  into  tlie  universe  of 
thought.  If,  then,  the  imagination  can  trace  the 
noble  dust  of  heroes,  till  we  find  it  stopping  a  beer- 
barrel,  and  know  that 

Imperial  Caesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
May  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away,  — 

not  less  can  it  trace  the  noble  thoughts  of  great 
men,  till  it  finds  them  mouldered  into  the  common 
dust  of  conversation,  and  used  to  stop  men's 
mouths,  and  patch  up  theories,  to  keep  out  the 
flaws  of  opinion.  Such,  for  example,  are  all  pop- 
ular adages  and  wise  proverbs,  which  are  now  re- 
solved into  the  common  mass  of  thought ;  their 
authors  forgotten,  and  having  no  more  an  individ- 
ual being  among  men. 

It  is  better,  therefore,  that  men  should  soon 
make  up  their  minds  to  be  forgotten,  and  look 
about  them,  or  w^ithin  them,  for  some  higher  mo- 
tive, in  what  they  do,  than  the  approbation  of  men, 
which  is  Fame,  —  namely,  their  duty ;  that  they 
should  be  constantly  and  quietly  at  work,  each  in 
his  sphere,  regardless  of  effects,  and  leaving  their 
fame  to  take  care  of  itself.  Difficult  must  this 
indeed  be,  in  our  imperfection  ;  impossible,  per- 
haps, to  achieve  it  wholly.  Yet  the  resolute,  the 
indomitable  will  of  man  can  achieve  much,  —  at 
times,  even  this  victory  over  himself ;  being  per- 
suaded that  fame  comes  only  when  deserved,  and 
then  is  as  inevitable  as  destiny,  for  it  is  destiny. 

It  has  become  a  common  saying  that  men  of 
genius  are  always  in  advance  of  their  age ;  which 
is  true.  There  is  something  equally  true,  yet  not 
so  common  ;  namely,  that,  of  these  men  of  genius, 


LITERARY  FAME  61 

the  best  and  bravest  are  in  advance  not  only  of 
their  own  age,  but  of  every  age.  As  the  German 
prose-poet  says,  every  possible  future  is  behind 
them.  We  cannot  suppose  that  a  period  of  time 
will  ever  arrive,  when  the  world,  or  any  consid- 
erable portion  of  it,  shall  have  come  up  abreast 
with  these  great  minds,  so  as  fully  to  comprehend 
them. 

And,  oh,  how  majestically  they  walk  in  history  ! 
some  like  the  sun,  "  with  all  his  travelling  glories 
round  him ;  "  others  wrapped  in  gloom,  yet  glorious 
as  a  night  with  stars.  Through  the  else  silent 
darkness  of  the  past,  the  spirit  hears  their  slow 
and  solemn  footsteps.  Onward  they  pass,  like 
those  hoary  elders  seen  in  the  vision  of  an  earthly 
paradise,  attendant  angels  bearing  golden  lights 
before  them,  and,  above  and  behind,  the  whole  air 
painted  with  seven  listed  colors,  as  from  the  trail 
of  pennons ! 

And  yet,  on  earth  these  men  were  not  happy,  — 
not  all  happy,  in  the  outward  circumstance  of  their 
lives.  They  were  in  want  and  in  pain,  and  familiar 
with  prison  bars  and  the  damp,  weeping  walls  of 
dungeons !  Oh,  I  have  looked  with  wonder  upon 
those  who,  in  sorrow  and  privation,  and  bodily  dis- 
comfort, and  sickness,  which  is  the  shadow  of  death, 
have  worked  right  on  to  the  accomplishment  of 
their  great  purposes,  toiling  much,  enduring  much, 
fulfilling  much,  —  and  then,  with  shattered  nerves, 
and  sinews  all  unstrung,  have  laid  themselves  down 
in  the  gi-ave,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  death,  —  and 
the  world  talks  of  them,  while  they  sleep ! 

It  would  seem,  indeed,  as  if  all  their  sufferings 


62  HYPERION 

had  but  sanctified  them ;  as  if  the  death-angel,  in 
passing,  had  touched  thfem  with  the  hem  of  his 
garment,  and  made  them  holy ;  as  if  the  hand  of 
disease  had  been  stretched  out  over  them  only  to 
make  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  their  souls !  And 
as  in  the  sun's  ^lipse  we  can  behold  the  great 
stars  shining  in  the  heavens,  so  in  this  life-eclipse 
have  these  men  beheld  the  lights  of  the  great 
eternity,  burning  solemnly  and  forever ! 

This  was  Flemming's  reverie.  It  was  broken 
by  the  voice  of  the  Baron,  suddenly  exclaiming :  — 

"  An  angel  is  flying  over  the  house !  —  Here, 
in  this  goblet,  fragrant  as  the  honey  of  Hymet- 
tus,  fragrant  as  the  wild-flowers  in  the  Angel's 
Meadow,  I  drink  to  the  divinity  of  thy  dreams." 

"  This  is  all  sunshine,"  said  Flemming,  as  he 
drank.  "  The  wine  of  the  Prince,  and  the  Prince 
of  wines.  By  the  way,  did  you  ever  read  that 
brilliant  Italian  dithyrambic,  Redi's  Bacchus  in 
Tuscany  ?  an  ode  which  seems  to  have  been  poured 
out  of  the  author's  soid,  as  from  a  golden  pitcher, 

Filled  with  the  wine 
Of  the  vine 
Benign, 
That  flames  so  red  in  Sansovine. 

He  calls  the  Montepulciano  the  king  of  aU  wines." 
"  Prince  Metternich,"  said  the  Baron,  "  is  greater 
than  any  king  in  Italy,  and  I  wonder  that  this 
precious  wine  has  never  inspired  a  German  poet 
to  write  a  Bacchus  on  the  Rhine.  Many  little  songs 
we  have  on  this  theme,  but  none  very  extraor- 
dinary. The  best  are  Max  Schenkendorf's  Song 
of  the  Rhine,  and  the  Song  of  Rhine-Wine,  by 


LITERARY  FAME  63 

Claudius,  a  poet  who  never  drank  Rhenish  with- 
out sugar.  We  will  drink  for  him  a  blessing  on 
the  Rhine." 

And  again  the  crystal  lips  of  the  goblets  kissed 
each  other,  with  a  musical  chime,  as  of  evening 
bells  at  vintage-time  from  the  villages  on  the* 
Rhine.  Of  a  truth,  I.  do  not  much  wonder  that 
the  German  poet  Schiller  loved  to  write  by  candle- 
light with  a  bottle  of  Rhine-wine  upon  the  table. 
Nor  do  I  wonder  at  the  worthy  schoolmaster, 
Roger  Ascham,  when  he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters 
from  Germany  to  Mr.  Jolm  Raven,  of  John's  Col- 
lege :  "  Tell  Mr.  Maden  I  will  drink  with  him  now 
a  carouse  of  wine ;  and  would  to  God  he  had  a 
vessel  of  Rhenish  wine  ;  and  perchance,  when  I 
come  to  Cambridge,  I  will  so  provide  here,  that 
every  year  I  will  have  a  little  piece  of  Rhenish 
wine."  Nor,  in  fine,  do  I  wonder  at  the  German 
emperor  of  whom  he  speaks  in  another  letter  to^ 
the  same  John  Raven,  and  says,  "  The  emperor 
drank  the  best  that  I  ever  saw ;  he  had  his  head  in 
the  glass  five  times  as  long  as  any  of  us,  and  never 
drank  less  than  a  good  quart  at  once  of  Rhenish 
wine." 

"  But  to  resume  our  old  theme  of  scholars  and 
their  whereabout,"  said  the  Baron,  with  an  unusual 
glow,  caught,  no  doubt,  from  the  golden  sunshine, 
imprisoned,  like  the  student  Anselmus,'in  the  glass 
bottle  ;  "  where  should  the  scholar  live  ?  In  soli- 
tude, or  in  society?  in  the  green  stillness  of  the 
country,  where  he  can  hear  the  heart  of  Nature 
beat,  or  in  the  dark,  gi'ay  town,  where  he  can  hear 
and  feel  the  throbbino;  heart  of  man  ?    I  will  make 


64  HYPERION 

answer  for  him,  and  say,  in  the  dark,  gray  town. 
Oh,  they  do  greatly  err  who  thinlc  that  tTie  stars  are 
all  the  poetry  which  cities  have  ;  and  therefore  that 
the  poet's  only  dwelling  should  be  in  sylvan  soli- 
tudes, under  the  green  roof  of  trees.  Beautiful, 
no  doubt,  are  all  the  forms  of  Nature,  when  trans- 
figured by  the  miraculous  power  of  poetry ;  ham- 
lets and  harvest  -  fields,  and  nut-brown  waters, 
flowing  ever  under  the  forest,  vast  and  shadowy, 
with  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  riu'al  life.  But 
after  all,  what  are  these  but  the  decorations  and 
painted  sceneiy  in  the  great  theatre  of  human  life  ? 
What  are  they  but  the  coarse  materials  of  the 
poet's  song  ?  Glorious  indeed  is  the  world  of  God 
around  us,  but  more  glorious  the  world  of  God 
within  us.  There  lies  the  Land  of  Song;  there 
lies  the  poet's  native  land.  The  river  of  life,  that 
flows  through  street?  tumultuous,  bearing  along 
so  many  gallant  hearts,  so  many  wrecks  of  human- 
ity ;  —  the  many  homes  and  households,  each  a 
little  world  in  itself,  revolving  rovmd  its  fireside, 
as  a  central  sun  ;  all  forms  of  human  joy  and  suffer- 
ing, brought  into  that  narrow  compass ;  —  and  to 
be  in  this,  and  be  a  part  of  this ;  acting,  think- 
ing, rejoicing,  sorrowing,  with  Ijis  fellow-men ;  — 
such,  such  should  be  the  poet's  life.  If  he  would 
describe  the  world,  he  should  live  in  the  world. 
The  mind  of  the  jcholar,  if  you  would  have  it 
large  and  liberal,  should  come  in  contact  with 
other  minds.  It  is  better  that  his  armor  should 
be  somewhat  bruised  by  rude  encounters,  even, 
than  hang  forever  rusting  on  the  wall.  Nor  will 
his  themes  be  few  or  trivial,  because  apparently 


LITERARY  FAME  65 

shut  in  between  the  walls  of  houses,  and  having 
merely  the  decorations  of  street  scenery.  A  ruined 
character  is  as  picturesque  as  a  ruined  castle. 
There  are  dark  abysses  and  yawning  gulfs  in  the 
human  heart,  which  can  be  rendered  passable  only 
by  bridging  them  over  with  iron  nerves  and  sinews, 
as  Challey  bridged  the  Sarine  in  Switzerland,  and 
Telford  the  sea  between  Anglesea  and  England, 
with  chain  bridges.  These  are  the  sreat  themes 
of  human  thought ;  not  green  grass,  and  flowers, 
and  moonlight.  Besides,  the  mere  external  forms 
of  Nature  we  make  our  own,  and  carry  with  us 
everywhere,  by  the  power  of  memory." 

"I  fear,  however,"  interrupted  Flemming,  "that 
in  towns  the  soul  of  man  grows  proud.  He  needs 
at  times  to  be  sent  forth,  like  the  Assyrian  mon- 
arch, into  green  fields,  '  a  wondrous  wretch  and 
weedless,'  to  eat  green  herbs,  and  be  wakened  and 
chastised  by  the  rain  shower  and  winter's  bitter 
weather.  Moreover,  in  cities  there  is  danger  of 
the  soul's  becoming  wed  to  pleasure,  and  forgetful 
of  its  high  vocation.  There  have  been  souls  dedi- 
cated to  heaven  from  childhood,  and  guarded  by 
good  angels  as  sweet  seclusions  for  holy  thoughts, 
and  prayers,  and  all  good  purposes ;  wherein  pious 
wishes  dwelt  like  nuns,  and  every  image  was  a 
saint ;  and  yet  in  life's  vicissitudes,  by  the  treach- 
ery of  occasion,  by  the  thronging  passions  of  great 
cities,  have  become  soiled  and  sinful.  They  re- 
semble those  convents  on  the  river  Rhine,  which 
have  been  changed  to  taverns  ;  from  whose  cham- 
bers the  pious  inmates  have  long  departed,  and  in 
whose  cloisters  the  footsteps  of  travellers  have  ef' 


66  HYPERION 

faced  the  images  of  buried  saints,  and  whose  walls 
are  written  over  with  ribaldry  and  the  names  of 
strangers,  and  resound  no  more  with  holy  hymns, 
but  with  revelry  and  loud  voices." 

"  Both  town  and  country  have  their  dangers," 
said  the  Baron ;  "  and  therefore,  wherever  the 
scholar  lives,  he  must  never  forget  his  high  voca- 
tion. Other  artists  give  themselves  up  wholly  to 
the  study  of  their  art.  It  becomes  with  them  al- 
most religion.  For  the  most  part,  and  in  their 
youth  at  least,  they  dwell  in  lands  where  the  whole 
atmosphere  of  the  soul  is  beauty ;  laden  with  it,  as 
the  air  may  be  with  vapor,  till  their  very  nature 
is  saturated  with  the  genius  of  their  art.  Such, 
for  example,  is  the  artist's  life  in  Italy." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  exclaimed  Flemming ;  "  and 
such  should  be  the  poet's  everywhere  ;  for  he  has 
his  Rome,  his  Florence,  his  whole  glowing  Italy, 
within  the  four  walls  of  his  library.  He  has  in 
his  books  the  ruins  of  an  antique  world,  —  and  the 
glories  of  a  modern  one,  —  his  Apollo  and  Trans- 
figuration. He  must  neither  forget  nor  under- 
value his  vocation,  but  thank  God  that  he  is  a 
poet;  and  everywhere  be  true  to  himself,  and  to 
'  the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine  '  he  recognizes 
within  him." 

"  But,  at  any  rate,  a  town  life  is  most  eventful," 
continued  the  Baron.  "  The  men  who  make,  or 
take,  the  lives  of  poets  and  scholars,  always  com- 
plain that  these  lives  are  bai'ren  of  incidents. 
Hardly  a  literary  biography  begins  without  some 
such  apology,  unwisely  made.  I  confess,  however, 
that  it  is  not  made  without  some  show  of  truth,  if 


LITERARY  FAME  67 

by  incidents  we  mean  only  those  startling  events 
which  suddenly  turn  aside  the  stream  of  time,  and 
change  the  world's  history  in  an  hour.  There  is 
certainly  a  uniformity,  pleasing  or  unpleasing,  in 
literary  life,  which  for  the  most  part  makes  to-day 
seem  twin-born  with  yesterday.  But  if  by  inci- 
dents you  mean  events  in  the  history  of  the  human 
mind,  (and  why  not  ?)  noiseless  events,  that  do 
not  scar  the  forehead  of  the  world  as  battles  do, 
yet  change  it  not  the  less,  then  surely  the  lives  of 
literary  men  are  most  eventful.  The  complaint 
and  the  apology  are  both  foolish.  I  do  not  see 
why  a  successful  book  is  not  as  great  an  event  as  a 
successful  campaign ;  only  different  in  kind,  and 
not  easily  compared." 

"  Indeed,"  interrupted  Flemming,  "  in  no  sense 
is  the  complaint  strictly  true,  though  at  times  ap- 
parently so.  Events  enough  there  are,  were  they 
all  set  down.  A  life  that  is  worth  writing  at  all  is 
worth  writing  minutely.  Besides,  all  literary  men 
have  not  lived  in  silence  and  solitude  ;  —  not  all  in 
stillness,  not  all  in  shadow.  For  many  have  lived 
in  troubled  times,  in  the  rude  and  adverse  fortunes 
of  the  state  and  age,  and  could  say,  with  Wallen- 
Btein, 

Oiir  life  was  but  a  battle  and  a  mareli ; 

And,  like  tbe  wind's  blast,  never  resting,  homeless, 

We  stormed  across  the  war-eonvxdsed  earth. 

Many  such  examples  has  history  recorded,  — 
Dante,  Cervantes,  Byron,  and  others  ;  men  of  iron, 
—  men  who  have  dared  to  breast  the  strong  breath 
of  public  opinion,  and,  like  spectre-ships,  come 
Bailing  right  against  the  wind.     Others  have  been 


68  HYPERION 

pujBFed  out  by  the  first  adverse  wind  that  blew ; 
disgraced  and  sorrowful,  because  they  could  not 
please  others.  Had  they  been  men,  they  woidd 
have  made  these  disappointments  their  best 
friends,  and  learned  from  them  the  needful  lesson 
of  self-reliance." 

"  To  confess  the  truth,"  added  the  Baron,  "the 
lives  of  literary  men,  with  their  hopes  and  disap- 
pointments, and  quarrels  and  calamities,  present  a 
melancholy  picture  of  man's  strength  and  weakness. 
On  that  very  accoimt  the  scholar  can  make  them 
profitable  for  encouragement,  consolation,  warn- 
ing." 

"  And  after  all,"  continued  Flemming,  "  perhaps 
the  greatest  lesson  which  the  lives  of  literary  men 
teach  us  is  told  in  a  single  word :  Wait !  Every 
man  must  patiently  bide  his  time.  He  must  wait. 
More  particularly  in  lands  like  my  native  land, 
where  the  pulse  of  life  beats  with  such  feverish 
and  impatient  throbs,  is  the  lesson  needful.  Our 
national  character  wants  the  dignity  of  repose. 
We  seem  to  live  in  the  midst  of  a  battle,  —  there 
is  such  a  din,  such  a  hurrying  to  and  fro.  In  the 
streets  of  a  crowded  city  it  is  difficult  to  walk 
slowly.  You  feel  the  rushing  of  the  crowd,  and 
rush  with  it  onward.  In  the  press  of  our  life  it  is 
difficult  to  be  calm.  In  this  stress  of  wind  and 
tide,  all  professions  seem  to  drag  their  anchors,  and 
are  swept  out  into  the  main.  The  voices  of  the 
Present  say,  '  Come  ! '  But  the  voices  of  the  Past 
say,  '  Wait ! '  With  calm  and  solemn  footsteps 
the  rising  tide  bears  against  the  rushing  torrent 
up  stream,  and  pushes  back  the  hurrying  waters, 


LITERARY  FAME  69 

With  no  less  calm  and  solemn  footsteps,  nor  less 
bertainty,  does  a  great  mind  bear  up  against  public 
opiuion,  and  push  back  its  hurrying  stream. 
Therefore  should  every  man  wait,  —  should  bide 
his  time.  Not  in  listless  idleness,  not  in  useless 
pastime,  not  in  querulous  dejection,  but  in  con- 
stant, steady,  cheerful  endeavors,  always  willing 
and  fulfilling,  and  accomplishing  his  task,  that, 
when  the  occasion  comes,  he  may  be  equal  to  the 
occasion.  And  if  it  never  comes,  what  matters  it? 
What  matters  it  to  the  world,  whether  I,  or  you, 
or  another  man  did  such  a  deed,  or  wrote  such  a 
book,  so  be  it  the  deed  and  book  were  well  done? 
It  is  the  part  of  an  indiscreet  and  troublesome  am- 
bition to  care  too  much  about  fame,  about  what 
the  world  says  of  us ;  to  be  always  looking  into 
the  faces  of  others  for  approval ;  to  be  always  anx- 
ious for  the  effect  of  what  we  do  and  say  ;  to  be  al- 
ways shouting  to  hear  the  echo  of  our  own  voices. 
If  you  look  about  you,  you  will  see  men  who  are 
wearing  life  away  in  feverish  anxiety  of  fame,  and 
the  last  we  shall  ever  hear  of  them  will  be  the 
funeral  bell  that  tolls  them  to  their  early  graves ! 
Unhappy  men,  and  unsuccessful!  because  their 
purpose  is,  not  to  accomplish  well  their  task,  but 
to  clutch  the  '  fantasy  and  trick  of  fame  ; '  and 
they  go  to  their  graves  with  purposes  unaccom- 
plished and  wishes  unfulfilled.  Better  for  them, 
and  for  the  world  in  their  example,  had  they 
known  how  to  wait !  Believe  me,  the  talent  of 
success  is  nothing  more  than  doing  what  yoii  can 
do  well ;  and  doing  well  whatever  you  do,  —  with- 
out a  thought  of  fame.     If  it  come  at  all,  it  will 


70  HYPERION 

come  because  it  is  deserved,  not  because  it  is 
sought  after.  And,  moreover,  there  will  be  no' 
misgiviugs,  no  disappointment,  no  hasty,  feverish, 
exhausting  excitement." 


Thus  endeth  the  First  Book  of  Hyperion.  I 
make  no  record  of  the  winter.  Paul  Flemming 
buried  himself  in  books,  —  in  old,  dusty  books. 
He  worked  his  way  diligently  through  the  ancient 
poetic  lore  of  Germany,  from  Frankish  Legends 
of  Saint  George,  and  Saxon  Rhyme-Chronicles, 
and  Nibelungen-Lieds,  and  Helden-Buchs,  and 
Songs  of  the  Minnesingers  and  Meistersingers,  and 
Ships  of  Fools,  and  Reynard  the  Foxes,  and  Death- 
Dances,  and  Lamentations  of  Damned  Soids,  into 
the  bright,  sunny  land  of  harvests,  where,  amid 
the  golden  grain  and  the  blue  corn-flowers,  walk 
the  modern  bards,  and  sing. 


BOOK  THE  SECOND 

Sometliing  the  heart  must  have  to  cherish, 
Must  love,  and  jo>,  and  sorrow  learn  ; 

Something  with  passion  clasp,  or  perish, 
And  in  itself  to  ashes  burn. 


CHAPTER  I. 
SPRING. 


It  was  a  sweet  carol  which  the  Ehodian  children 
sang  of  old  in  Spring,  bearing  in  their  hands,  from 
door  to  door,  a  swallow,  as  herald  of  the  season :  — 

The  Swallow  is  come  ! 

The  Swallow  is  come  ! 

Oh,  fair  are  the  seasons,  and  light 

Are  the  days  that  she  brings, 

With  her  dusky  wings, 

And  her  bosom  snowy  white  ! 

A  pretty  carol,  too,  is  that  which  the  Hungarian 
boys,  on  the  islands  of  the  Danube,  sing  to  the  re- 
turning stork  in  Spring  :  — 

Stork  !  Stork  !  poor  Stork ! 
Why  is  thy  foot  so  bloody  ? 
A  Turkish  boy  hath  torn  it  ; 
Hungarian  boy  will  heal  it, 
Witli  fiddle,  fife,  and  drum. 

But  what  child  has  a  heart  to  sing  in  this  capri- 
cious clime  of  ours,  where  Spring  comes  sailing  in 
from  the  sea,  with  wet  and  heavy  cloud-sails,  and 


72  HYPERION 

the  misty  pennon  of  the  east-wind  nailed  to  the 
mast  ?  Yet  even  here,  and  in  the  stormy  month  of 
March  even,  there  are  bright,  warm  mornings,  when 
we  open  our  windows  to  inhale  the  balmy  air.  The 
pigeons  fly  to  and  fro,  and  we  hear  the  whii-riug 
sound  of  wings.  Old  flies  crawl  out  of  the  cracks, 
to  sun  themselves,  and  think  it  is  Summer.  They 
die  in  their  conceit ;  and  so  do  our  hearts  within 
us,  when  the  cold  sea-breath  comes  from  the  east- 
ern sea,  and  again 

The  driving  hail 

Upon  the  window  beats  with  icy  flail. 

The  red-flowering  maple  is  first  in  blossom, 
its  beautiful  purple  flowers  unfolding  a  fortnight 
before  the  leaves.  The  moose-wood  follows,  with 
rose-colored  buds  and  leaves,  and  the  dog-wood, 
robed  in  the  white  of  its  own  pure  blossoms.  Then 
comes  the  sudden  rain-storm ;  and  the  birds  fly  to 
and  fro,  and  shriek.  Where  do  they  hide  them- 
selves in  such  storms  ?  at  what  firesides  dry  their 
feathery  cloaks  ?  At  the  fireside  of  the  great,  hos- 
pitable sun,  —  to-morrow,  not  before ;  —  they  must 
sit  in  wet  garments  until  then. 

In  all  climates  Spring  is  beautiful.  In  the 
South  it  is  intoxicating,  and  sets  a  poet  beside 
himself.  The  birds  begin  to  sing;  they  utter  a 
few  rapturous  notes,  and  then  wait  for  an  answer 
in  the  silent  woods.  Those  green-coated  musi= 
cians,  the  frogs,  make  holiday  in  the  neighboring 
marshes.  They,  too,  belong  to  the  orchestra  of 
Nature,  whose  vast  theatre  is  again  opened,  though 
the  doors  have  been  so  long  bolted  with  icicles, 
and  the  scenery  hung  with  snow  and  frost  like 
cobwebs.     This  is  the  prelude  which   announces 


SPRING  73 

the  opening  of  the  scene.  Already  the  grass 
shoots  forth.  The  waters  leap  with  thrilling  pulse 
through  the  veins  of  the  earth ;  the  sap  through 
the  veins  of  the  plants  and  trees  ;  and  the  blood 
through  the  veins  of  man.  What  a  thrill  of  de- 
light in  Spring-time !  What  a  joy  in  being  and 
moving !  Men  are  at  work  in  gardens ;  and  in  the 
air  there  is  an  odor  of  the  fresh  earth.  The  leaf- 
buds  begin  to  swell  and  blush.  The  white  blos- 
soms of  the  cherry  hang  upon  the  boughs  like 
snow-flakes,  and  erelong  our  next-door  neighbors 
will  be  completely  hidden  from  us  by  the  dense 
green  foliage.  The  May-flowers  open  their  soft 
blue  eyes.  Children  are  let  loose  in  the  fields  and 
gardens.  They  hold  buttercups  under  each  other's 
chins,  to  see  if  they  love  butter.  And  the  little 
girls  adorn  themselves  with  chains  and  curls  of 
dandelions;  pull  out  the  yellow  leaves,  to  see  if 
the  school-boy  loves  them,  and  blow  the  down  from 
the  leafless  stalk,  to  find  out  if  their  mothers  want 
them  at  home. 

And  at  night  so  cloudless  and  so  still !  Not  a 
voice  of  living  thing,  —  not  a  whisper  of  leaf  or 
waving  bough,  —  not  a  breath  of  wind,  —  not  a 
sound  upon  the  earth  nor  in  the  air !  And  over- 
head bends  the  blue  sky,  dewy  and  soft,  and  radi- 
ant with  innumerable  stars,  like  the  inverted  bell 
of  some  blue  flower,  sprinkled  with  golden  dust, 
and  breathing  fragrance.  Or  if  the  heavens  are 
overcast,  it  is  no  wild  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  but 
clouds  that  melt  and  fall  in  showers.  One  does 
not  wish  to  sleep,  but  lies  awake  to  hear  the  pleas- 
ant sound  of  the  dropping  rain. 

It  was  thus  the  Spring  began  in  Heidelberg. 


71  HYPERION 

CHAPTER  II. 
A   COLLOQUY. 

"  And  what  think  you  of  Tiedge's  Urania  ?  " 
said  the  Baron,  smiling,  as  Paul  Flemming  closed 
the  book,  and  laid  it  upon  the  table. 

"  I  think,"  said  Flemming,  "  that  it  is  very  much 
like  Jean  Paul's  grandfather,  —  in  the  highest  de- 
gree poor  and  pious." 

"  Bravo  !  "  exclaimed  the  Baron.  "  That  is  the 
best  criticism  I  have  heard  upon  the  book.  For 
my  part,  I  dislike  it  as  much  as  Goethe  did.  It 
was  once  very  popidar,  and  lay  about  in  every 
parlor  and  bedroom.  This  annoyed  the  old  gen- 
tleman exceedingly  ;  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  it. 
He  complains  that  at  one  time  nothing  was  sung 
or  said  but  this  Urania.  He  believed  in  Immor- 
tality; but  wished  to  cherish  his  belief  in  quiet- 
ness. He  once  told  a  friend  of  his,  that  he  had, 
however,  learned  one  thing  from  all  this  talk  about 
Tiedge  and  his  Urania ;  which  was,  that  the  saints, 
as  well  as  the  nobility,  constitute  an  aristocracy. 
He  said  he  found  stupid  women  who  were  proud 
because  they  believed  in  Immortality  with  Tiedge, 
and  had  to  submit  himself  to  not  a  few  mysterious 
cateehizings  and  tea-table  lectures  on  this  point ; 
and  that  he  cut  them  short  by  saying,  that  he  had 
no  objection  whatever  to  enter  into  another  state 
of  existence  hereafter,  but  prayed  only  that  he 
might  be  spared  the  honor  of  meeting  there  any 
of  those  who  had  believed  in  it  here,  —  for,  if 
he  did,  they  would  flock  around  him  on  all  sides, 


A    COLLOQUY  T5 

exclaiming,  '  Were  we  not  in  the  right  ?  Did  we 
not  tell  you  so  ?  Has  it  not  all  turned  out  just  as 
we  said?'" 

"  How  shocked  the  good  old  ladies  must  have 
been !  "  said  Flemming. 

"  No  doubt  their  nerves  suffered  a  little  ;  but 
the  young  women  loved  him  all  the  better  for  be- 
ing witty  and  wicked,  and  thought,  if  they  could 
only  marry  him,  how  they  would  reform  him." 

"  Bettina  Brentano,  for  instance." 

"  Oh,  no !  That  happened  long  afterwards. 
Goethe  was  then  an  old  man  of  sixty.  She  had 
never  seen  him,  and  knew  him  only  by  his  writ- 
ings :  a  romantic  girl  of  seventeen." 

"  And  yet  much  in  love  with  the  sexagenarian. 
And  surely,  a  more  wild,  fantastic  passion  never 
sprang  up  in  woman's  breast.  She  was  a  flower 
that  worshipped  the  sun." 

"  She  afterwards  married  Achim  von  Arnim, 
and  is  now  a  widow.  And  not  the  least  singular 
part  of  the  affair  is  that,  having  grown  older,  and 
I  hope  colder,  she  should  herself  publish  the  letters 
which  passed  between  her  and  Goethe." 

"  Particularly  the  letter  in  which  she  describes 
her  first  visit  to  Weimar,  and  her  interview  with 
the  hitherto  invisible  divinity  of  her  dreams.  The 
old  gentleman  took  her  upon  his  knees,  and  she 
fell  asleep  with  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 
Oberon  must  have  touched  her  eyes  with  the  juice 
of  Love-in-idleness.  However,  this  book  of 
Goethe's  Correspondence  with  a  Child  is  a  very 
singular  and  valuable  revelation  of  the  feelings 
which  he  excited  in  female  hearts.  You  say  she 
afterwards  married  Achim  von  Arnim  ?  " 


76  HYPERION 

"  Yes ;  and  he  and  her  brother,  Clemens  Bren- 
tano,  puljli.shed  that  wondrous  book,  the  Boy's 
AVonder-IIorn." 

"  The  Boy's  "Wonder-Horn !  "  said  Flcmming, 
after  a  short  pause,  for  the  name  seemed  to  have 
thro^^^l  him  into  a  reverie ;  —  "I  know  the  book 
almost  by  heart.  Of  all  your  German  books,  it 
is  the  one  which  produces  upon  my  imagination 
the  most  wild  and  magic  influence.  I  have  a  pas- 
sion for  ballads !  " 

"And  who  has  not?"  said  the  Baron,  with  a 
smile.  "  They  are  the  gypsy-children  of  song,  born 
under  green  hedgerows,  in  the  leafy  lanes  and  by- 
paths of  literature,  —  in  the  genial  Summer-time." 

"  AVhy  do  you  say  Summer-time,  and  not  Sum- 
mer ?  "  incpiired  Flemming.  "  The  expression  re- 
minds me  of  your  old  Minnesingers ;  —  of  Hein- 
rich  von  Ofterdingen,  and  Walther  von  der 
Vogelweide,  and  Count  Kraft  von  Toggenburg, 
and  your  own  ancestor,  I  dare  say,  Burkhart  von 
Hohenfels.  They  were  always  singing  of  the 
gentle  Summer-time.  They  seemed  to  have  lived 
poetry,  as  well  as  sung  it ;  like  the  birds  who  make 
their  marriage-beds  in  the  voluptuous  trees." 

"  Is  that  from  Shakespeare  ?  " 

"  No ;  from  Lope  de  Vega." 

"  You  are  deeply  read  in  the  lore  of  antiquity, 
and  the  Aubades  and  "Watch-Songs  of  the  old 
Minnesingers.  What  do  you  think  of  the  shoe- 
maker poets  that  came  after  them,  —  with  their 
guilds  and  singing-schools?  It  makes  me  laugh 
to  think  how  the  great  streams  of  your  German 
Helicon,  shrunk  to  small  rivulets,  go  bubbling  and 


A    COLLOQUY  77 

gurgling  over  the  pebbly  names  of  Zwinger,  Wiir- 
gendriissel,  Buclienlin,  Ilellfire,  Old  Stoll,  Young 
StoU,  Strong  Bopp,  Dang  Brotscheim,  Batt  Spie- 
gel, Peter  Pfort,  and  Martin  Gumpel.  And  then 
the  Corporation  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  with 
their  stumpfe-reime  and  klingende-reime,  and  their 
Hans  Tindeisen's  rosemary  -  weise,  and  Joseph 
Schmierer's  flowery -paradise -weise,  and  Frauen- 
lob's  yellow-weise,  and  blue-weise,  and  frog-weise, 
and  looking-glass- weise  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  entreat  you,"  exclaimed  Flemming, 
laughing,  "  do  not  call  those  men  poets !  You 
transport  me  to  quaint  old  Nuremberg,  and  I  see 
Hans  Sachs  making  shoes,  and  Hans  Folz  shaving 
the  burgomaster." 

"  By  the  way,"  interrupted  the  Baron,  "  did  you 
ever  read  Hoffmann's  beautiful  story  of  Master 
Martin,  the  Cooper  of  Nuremberg  ?  I  will  read 
it  to  you  this  very  night.  It  is  the  most  delightful 
picture  of  that  age  which  you  can  conceive.  But 
look  !  the  sun  has  already  set  behind  the  Alsatian 
hills.  Let  us  go  up  to  the  castle  and  look  for  the 
ghost  in  Prince  Ruprecht's  tower.  Oh,  what  a 
glorious  sunset !  " 

Flemming  looked  at  the  evening  sky,  and  a 
shade  of  sadness  stole  over  his  countenance.  He 
told  not  to  his  friend  the  sorrow  with  which  his 
heart  was  heavy,  but  kept  it  for  himself  alone. 
He  knew  that  the  time,  which  comes  to  all  men,  — 
the  time  to  suffer  and  be  silent,  —  had  come  to  him 
likewise,  and  he  spake  no  word.  Oh,  well  has  it 
been  said,  that  there  is  no  grief  like  the  grief  which 
does  not  speak ! 


78  HYPERION 

CHAPTER  III. 

OAVL-TOWERS. 

"  There  sits  the  old  Frau  Himmelauen,  perched 
up  ill  her  owl-tower,"  said  the  Baron  to  Flemming, 
as  they  passed  along  the  Hauptstrasse.  "  She 
looks  down  through  her  round-eyed  spectacles 
from  her  nest  there,  and  watches  every  one  that 
goes  by.  I  wonder  what  mischief  she  is  hatching 
now.  Do  you  know  she  has  nearly  ruined  your 
character  in  town  ?  She  says  you  have  a  rakish 
look,  because  you  carry  a  cane,  and  your  hair  curls. 
Your  gloves,  also,  are  a  shade  too  light  for  a  strictly 
virtuous  man." 

"  It  is  very  kind  in  her  to  take  such  good  care 
of  my  character,  particularly  as  I  am  a  stranger  in 
town.  She  is  doubtless  learned  in  the  Clothes- 
Philosophy." 

"  And  ignorant  of  everjiihing  else.  She  asked 
a  friend  of  mine,  the  other  day,  whether  Christ 
was  a  Catholic  or  a  Protestant." 

"  That  is  really  too  absurd  !  " 

"  Not  too  absurd  to  be  true.  And,  ignorant  as 
she  is,  she  contrives  to  do  a  good  deal  of  mischief 
in  the  course  of  the  year.  Why,  the  women  al- 
ready call  you  Wilhelm  Meister." 

"  They  are  at  liberty  to  call  me  what  they  please. 
But  you,  who  know  me  better,  know  that  I  am 
something  more  than  they  would  imply  by  the 
name." 

"  She  says,  moreover,  that  the  American  women 
sit  with  their  feet  out  of  the  window,  and  have  no 
pocket-handkerchiefs." 


OWL-TOWERS  79 

«  Excellent ! " 

They  crossed  the  market-place,  and  went  up  be- 
neath the  grand  terrace  into  the  court-yard  of  the 
castle. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  under  the  great  linden-trees, 
that  grow  on  the  summit  of  the  Rent  Tower,"  said 
riemming.  "  From  that  point  as  from  a  watch- 
tower,  we  can  look  down  into  the  garden,  and  see 
the  crowd  below  us." 

"  And  amuse  ourselves,  as  old  Frau  Himmelauen 
does  at  her  window  in  the  Hauptstrasse,"  added 
the  Baron. 

The  keejDer's  daughter  unlocked  for  them  the 
door  of  the  tower,  and,  climbing  the  steep  stair- 
case, they  seated  themselves  on  a  wooden  bench 
under  the  linden-trees. 

"  How  beautifully  these  trees  overgrow  the  old 
tower !  And  see  what  a  solid  mass  of  masonry 
lies  in  the  great  fosse  down  there,  toppled  from  its 
base  by  the  explosion  of  a  mine  !  It  is  like  a  rusty 
helmet  cleft  in  twain,  but  still  crested  with  tower- 
ing plumes ! " 

"  And  what  a  motley  crowd  In  the  garden ! 
Philisters  and  Sons  of  the  Muses !  And  there 
goes  the  venerable  Thibaut,  taking  his  evening 
stroll.  Do  you  see  him  there,  with  his  silver  hair 
flowing  over  his  shoulders,  and  that  friendly  face, 
which  has  for  so  many  years  pored  over  the  Pan- 
dects ?  I  assure  you,  he  inspires  me  with  awe. 
And  yet  he  is  a  merry  old  man,  and  loves  his  joke, 
particularly  at  the  expense  of  Moses  and  other 
ancient  lawgivers." 

Here  their  attention  was  diverted  by  a  wild-look- 


80  HYPERION 

in«-  person,  who  passed  with  long  strides  under  the 
archway  in  the  fosse,  right  beneath  them,  and  dis- 
appeared among  the  bushes.  lie  was  ill-dressed, 
his  hair  flying  in  the  wind,  his  movements  hurried 
and  nervous,  and  the  expression  of  his  broad  coun- 
tenance wild,  strange,  and  earnest. 

"  AVho  can  that  be  ?  "  asked  Flemming.  "  He 
strides  away  indignantly,  like  one  of  Ossian's 
ghosts !  " 

"  A  great  philosopher,  whose  name  I  have  for- 
gotten.    Truly,  a  strange  owl !  " 

"  He  looks  like  a  lion  with  a  hat  on." 

"  He  is  a  mystic,  who  reads  Schubert's  History 
of  the  Soul,  and  lives,  for  the  most  part,  in  the 
clouds  of  the  Middle  Ages.  To  liim  the  spirit- 
world  is  still  open.  He  believes  in  the  transmigra- 
tion of  souls  ;  and  I  dare  say  is  now  following  the 
spirit  of  some  departed  friend,  who  has  taken  the 
form  of  yonder  pigeon." 

"  What  a  strange  hallucination !  He  lives,  I 
suppose,  in  the  land  of  cloud-shadows.  And,  as 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas  was  said  to  be  lifted  up  from 
the  ground  by  the  fervor  of  his  prayers,  so,  no 
doubt,  is  he  by  the  fervor  of  his  visions." 

"  He  certainly  appears  to  neglect  all  sublunary 
things  ;  and,  to  judge  from  certain  appearances, 
since  you  seem  fond  of  holy  similitudes,  one  would 
say,  that,  like  St.  Serapion  the  Sindonite,  he  had 
but  one  shirt.  Yet  what  cares  he  ?  he  lives  in  that 
poetic  dream-land  of  his  thoughts,  and  clothes  him- 
self  in  poetry." 

"  He  is  a  poet,  then,  as  well  as  a  philoso- 
pher?" 


OWL-TOWERS  81 

"  Yes  ;  but  a  poet  who  never  writes.  There  is 
nothing  in  nature  to  which  his  imagination  does 
not  give  a  poetic  hue.  But  the  power  to  make 
others  see  these  objects  in  the  same  poetic  light  is 
wanting.  Still  he  is  a  man  of  fine  powers  and 
feelings ;  for  next  to  being  a  great  poet  is  the 
power  of  understanding  one,  —  of  finding  one's 
self  in  him,  as  we  Germans  say." 

Three  figures,  dressed  in  black,  now  came  from 
one  of  the  green  alleys,  and  stopped  on  the  brink 
of  a  fountain  that  was  playing  among  the  gay  flow- 
ers in  the  garden.  The  eldest  of  the  three  was 
a  woman  in  that  season  of  life  when  the  early  au- 
tumn gives  to  the  summer  leaves  a  warmer  glow, 
yet  fades  them  not.  Though  the  mother  of  many 
children,  she  was  still  beautiful ;  resembling  those 
trees  which  blossom  in  October,  when  the  leaves 
are  changing,  and  whose  fruit  and  blossom  are  on 
the  branch  at  once.  At  her  side  was  a  girl  of  some 
sixteen  years,  who  seemed  to  lean  upon  her  arm 
for  support.  Her  figure  was  slight ;  her  coun- 
tenance beautiful,  though  deadly  white ;  and  her 
meek  eyes  like  the  flower  of  the  nightshade,  pale 
and  blue,  but  sending  forth  golden  rays.  They 
were  attended  by  a  tall  youth  of  foreign  aspect, 
who  seemed  a  young  Antinous,  with  a  mustache 
and  a  nose  a  la  Kosciusho.  In  other  respects  a 
perfect  hero  of  romance. 

"  Unless  mine  eyes  deceive  me,"  said  the  Baron, 
"  there  is  the  Fran  von  Ilmenau,  with  her  pale 
daughter  Emma,  and  that  eternal  Polish  count. 
He  is  always  hovering  about  them,  playing  the  un- 
happy exile,  merely  to  excite  that  poor  girl's  sym- 


82  HYPERION 

pathies  ;  and  as  wTetclied  as  genius  and  wantonness 
can  make  him." 

"  Why,  he  is  already  married,  you  know,"  re- 
plied Flemming.  "  And  his  wife  is  young  and 
beautifid." 

"  That  does  not  pi'event  Mm  from  being  in  love 
with  some  one  else.  That  question  was  decided  in 
the  Courts  of  Love  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Accord- 
ingly he  has  sent  his  fair  \nie  to  Warsaw.  But 
how  pale  the  poor  child  looks  !  " 

"  She  has  just  recovered  from  severe  illness.  In 
the  winter,  you  know,  it  was  thought  she  would 
not  live  from  hour  to  hour." 

"And  she  has  hardly  recovered  from  that  dis- 
ease, before  she  seems  threatened  with  a  worse 
one  ;  namely,  a  hopeless  passion.  However,  jjeople 
do  not  die  of  love  nowadays." 

"  Seldom,  perhaps,"  said  Flemming.  "  And  yet 
it  is  folly  to  pretend  that  one  ever  wholly  recovers 
from  a  disappointed  passion.  Such  wounds  always 
leave  a  scar.  There  are  faces  I  can  never  look 
upon  without  emotion.  There  are  names  I  can 
never  hear  spoken  without  almost  starting." 

"  But  whom  have  we  here  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  French  poet  Quinet,  with  his  fair 
German  wife  ;  one  of  the  most  interesting  women 
I  ever  knew.  He  is  the  author  of  a  very  wild 
Mystery,  or  dramatic  prose-poem,  in  which  the 
Ocean,  IMont  Blanc,  and  the  Cathedral  of  Stras- 
burg  have  parts  to  play ;  and  the  saints  on  the 
stained  windows  of  the  minster  speak,  and  the 
statues  and  dead  kings  enact  the  Dance  of  Death. 
It  is  entitled  Ahasuerus,  or  the  Wandering  Jew." 


OWL-TOWERS  83 

"  Or,  as  the  Danes  would  translate  it,  the  Shoe- 
maker of  Jerusalem.  That  would  be  a  still  more 
fantastic  title  for  his  fantastic  book.  You  know  I 
am  no  jrreat  admirer  of  the  modern  French  school 
of  writers.  The  tales  of  Paul  de  Kock  seem  to  me  / 
like  obscene  stories  told  at  dinner-tables.  It  has 
been  truly  said  of  him  that  he  is  not  only  pojm- 
laire,  but  jJopulacier;  and  rather  harshly  of  George  | 
Sand  and  Victor  Hugo,  that  their  works  stand 
like  fortifications,  well  built  and  well  supplied  with 
warlike  munitions,  but  ineffectual  against  the 
Grand  Army  of  God,  which  marches  onward,  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  In  surveying  a  na-  \  1/ 
tional  literature,  the  point  you  must  start  from  is 
national  character.  That  lets  you  into  many  a 
secret.  The  most  prominent  trait  in  the  French 
character  is  love  of  amusement  and  excitement ; 
and  "  — 

"  I  should  say,  rather,  the  fear  of  ennui,"  inter- 
rupted Flemming.  "  Some  one  has  said,  with  a 
great  deal  of  truth,  that  the  gentry  of  France  rush 
into  Paris  to  escape  from  ennui,  as,  in  the  noble 
days  of  chivalry,  the  defenceless  inhabitants  of  the 
champaign  fled  into  the  castles  at  the  approach  of 
some  plundering  knight  or  lawless  baron,  forsak- 
ing the  inspired  twilight  of  their  native  groves  for 
the  luxurious  shades  of  the  royal  gardens.  What 
do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

The  Baron  replied,  with  a  smile  :  — 

"  There  is  only  one  Paris  ;  and  out  of  Paris 
there  is  no  salvation  for  decent  people," 

Thus  conversing  of  many  things  sat  the  two 
friends  under  the  linden-trees  on  the  Kent  Tower, 


84  HYPERION 

till  ^adually  the  crowd  disappeared  from  the 
garden,  and  the  objects  around  them  grew  indis- 
tinct, in  the  fading  twilight.  Between  them  and 
the  amber-colored  western  sky,  the  dense  foliage 
of  the  trees  looked  heavy  and  hard  as  if  cast  in 
bronze  ;  and  already  the  evening  stars  hung  like 
silver  lamps  in  the  towering  branches  of  that  Tree 
of  Life,  brought  more  than  two  centuries  ago  from 
its  primeval  paradise  in  America,  to  beautify  the 
gardens  of  the  Palatinate. 

"  I  take  a  mournfid  pleasure  in  gazing  at  that 
tree,"  said  Flemming,  as  they  rose  to  depart.  "  It 
stands  there  so  straight  and  tall,  with  iron  bands 
around  its  noble  trunk  and  limbs,  in  silent  maj- 
esty, or  whispering  only  in  its  native  tongue,  and 
freighting  the  homeward  wind  with  sighs !  It  re- 
minds me  of  some  captive  monarch  of  a  savage 
tribe,  brought  over  the  vast  ocean  for  a  show,  and 
chained  in  the  public  market-place  of  the  city,  dis- 
dainfully silent,  or  breathing  only  in  melancholy 
accents  a  prayer  for  his  native  forest,  a  longing  to 
be  free." 

"  Majmificent !  "  cried  the  Baron.  "I  alwavs 
experience  something  of  the  same  feeling,  when  I 
walk  through  a  conservatory.  The  luxuriant  plants 
of  the  tropics  —  those  illustrious  exotics,  with  their 
gorgeous  flamingo  -  colored  blossoms,  and  great 
flapping  leaves,  like  elephants'  ears  —  have  a  sin- 
gular working  upon  my  imagination,  and  remind 
me  of  a  menagerie  and  wild  beasts  kept  in  cages. 
But  your  illustration  is  finer,  indeed,  a  grand 
figure.     Put  it  down  for  an  epic  poem." 


A   BEER-SCANDAL  85 

CHAPTER  IV. 
A   BEER-SCANDAL. 

On  their  way  homeward,  Flemming  and  the 
Baron  passed  through  a  narrow  lane,  in  which 
was  a  well  -  known  Studenten  -  Kneipe.  At  the 
door  stood  a  young  man,  whom  the  Baron  at  once 
recognized  as  his  friend  Von  Kleist.  He  was  a 
student,  and  universally  acknowledged,  among 
his  young  acquaintance,  as  a  "  devilish  handsome 
fellow,"  notwithstanding  a  tremendous  scar  on  his 
cheek,  and  a  cream-colored  mustache  as  soft  as  the 
silk  of  Indian  corn.  In  short,  he  was  a  renowner 
and  a  duellist. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Von  Kleist  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Baron !  Is  it  you  ?  Come  in  ; 
come  in.  You  shall  see  some  sport.  A  Fox-Com- 
merce is  on  foot,  and  a  regular  Beer-Scandal." 

"  Shall  we  go  in,  Flemming  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  should  like  to  see  how  these 
things  are  managed  in  Heidelberg.  You  are  a 
baron,  and  I  am  a  stianger.  It  is  of  no  conse- 
quence what  you  and  I  do,  as  the  king's  fool 
Angeli  said  to  the  poet  Bautra,  urging  him  to  put 
on  his  hat  at  the  royal  dinner-table." 

William  Lilly,  the  Astrologer,  says,  in  his  Au- 
tobiography, that,  when  he  was  committed  to  the 
guard-room  in  Whitehall,  he  thought  himself  in 
hell ;  for  "  some  were  sleeping,  others  swearing, 
others  smoking  tobacco,  and  in  the  cliimney  of 
the  room  there  were  two  bushels  of  broken  to- 
bacco-pipes,  and   almost  half   a  load  of   ashes." 


86  HYPERION 

What  he  would  have  thought,  If  he  had  peeped 
into  this  Heidelberg  Studunten-Kneipe,  I  know 
not.  He  certainly  would  not  have  thought  himself 
in  heaven,  unless  it  were  a  Scandinavian  heaven. 
The  windows  were  open,  and  yet  so  dense  was  the 
atmosphere  with  the  smoke  of  tobacco  and  the 
fumes  of  beer,  that  the  tallow  candles  burned 
but  dimly.  A  crowd  of  students  were  sitting  at 
three  long  tables,  in  the  large  hall  —  a  medley  of 
fellows,  known  at  German  universities  under  the 
cant  names  of  Old-Ones,  Mossy-Heads,  Princes 
of  Twilight,  and  Pomatum-Stallions.  They  were 
smoking,  drinking,  singing,  screaming,  and  dis- 
cussing the  great  Laws  of  the  Broad-Stone  and 
the  Gutter.  They  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  like- 
wise, about  Besens,  and  Zobels,  and  Poussades ; 
and,  if  they  had  been  charged  for  the  noise  they 
made,  as  travellers  used  to  be  in  the  old  Dutch 
taverns,  they  would  have  a  longer  bill  to  pay  for 
that  than  for  their  beer. 

In  a  large  arm-chair,  upon  the  middle  table, 
sat  one  of  those  distinguished  individuals  known 
among  German  students  as  a  Senior,  or  Leader  of 
a  Landsmannschaft.  He  was  booted  and  spurred, 
and  wore  a  very  small  crimson  cap,  and  a  very 
tight  blue  jacket,  and  very  long  hair,  and  a  very 
dirty  shirt.  He  was  President  of  the  night ;  and, 
as  Flemming  entered  the  hall  with  the  Bai'on  and 
his  friend,  striking  upon  the.  table  with  a  mighty 
broad-sword,  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice  :  — 

"  Silentium  !  " 

At  the  same  moment,  a  door  at  the  end  of  the 
hall  was  thrown  open,  and  a  procession  of  new- 


A    BEER-SCANDAL  87 

eoraers,  or  Nasty-Foxes,  as  they  are  called  in  the 
college  dialect,  entered  two  by  two,  looking  wild, 
and  green,  and  foolish.  As  they  came  forward, 
they  were  obliged  to  pass  under  a  pair  of  naked 
swords,  held  crosswise  by  two  Old-Ones,  who,  with 
pieces  of  burnt  cork,  made  an  enormous  pair  of 
mustaches  on  the  smooth  rosy  cheeks  of  each,  as 
he  passed  beneath  this  arch  of  triumph.  While 
the  procession  was  entering  the  hall,  the  President 
lifted  up  his  voice  again,  and  began  to  sing  the 
well-known  Fox-song,  in  the  chorus  of  which  all 
present  joined  lustily. 

What  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 
What  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 
What  comes  there  from,  the  leathery  hill  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  hill ! 
What  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 

It  is  a  postilion ! 
It  is  a  postilion  ! 
It  is  a  leathery  postilion  ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Postilion  ! 
It  is  a  postilion  ! 

What  brings  the  postilion  ? 
What  brings  the  postilion  ? 
What  brings  the  leathery  postilion  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Postilion ! 
What  brings  the  postilion  ? 

He  bringeth  ns  a  Fox ! 
He  bringeth  us  a  Fox  ! 
He  bringeth  us  a  leathery  Fox ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  Fox ! 
He  bringeth  us  a  Fox ! 


88  HYPERION 

Your  servant,  Masters  mine  ! 
Yoiir  servant,  Masters  mine  1 
Your  servant,  much-honored  Masters  minet 

Sa!  Sa! 

Much-honored  Masters  mine  ! 
Your  servant,  Masters  mine  ! 

How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 
How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Herr  Papa  ? 

Sa!   Sa! 

Herr  Papa ! 
How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 

He  reads  in  Cicero  1 
He  reads  in  Cicero  ! 
He  reads  in  leathery  Cicero ! 

Sa!  Sal 

Cicero ! 
He  reads  in  Cicero ! 

How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 
How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 
How  does  tlie  leathery  Frau  Mamma  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Frau  Mamma! 
How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 

She  makes  the  Papa  tea ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  tea  ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  leathery  tea  I 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  tea ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  tea ! 

How  does  the  Mamsell  Soeur  ? 
How  does  tlie  Mamsell  Sceur  ? 
How  does  the  leatliery  Mamsell  Soeur  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Mamsell  Sceur ! 
How  does  the  Mamsell  Scexir  ? 


A   BEER-SCANDAL  ^9 

She  knits  the  Papa  socks ! 
She  knits  the  Papa  socks  ! 
She  knits  the  Papa  leathery  socks ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  socks! 
She  knits  the  Papa  socks ! 

How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 
How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Herr  Rector  ? 

Sa!  Sa! 

Herr  Rector  ! 
How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 

He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy ! 
He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy  ! 
He  caUs  the  scholar,  leathery  Boy ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  Boy ! 
He  calls  the  scholar.  Boy ! 

And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco  ! 
And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco ! 
And  smokes  the  leathery  Fox  tobacco ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Fox  tobacco ! 
And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco ! 

A  little,  Masters  mine ! 
A  little,  Masters  mine ! 
A  little,  much-honored  Masters  minel 

Sa!  Sa! 

Much-honored  Masters  mine ! 
A  little,  masters  mine ! 

Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  leathery  pipe ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  pipe ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe ! 


90  HYPERION 

O  Lord  !  it  makes  me  sick  ! 
O  Lord !  it  makes  me  sick ! 
O  Lord !  it  makes  rae  leathery  sick ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  sick ! 
O  Lord !  it  makes  me  sick ! 

Then  let  him  throw  it  o£E ! 
Then  let  him  throw  it  off  ! 
Then  let  him  throw  it  leathery  off  I 

Sa!  Sa! 

Leathery  off ! 
Then  let  him  throw  it  off  ! 

Now  I  ag-ain  am  well ! 
Now  I  again  am  well ! 
Now  I  agam  am  leathery  well! 

Sii!  Sa! 

Leathery  well ! 
Now  I  again  am  well ! 

So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch  ! 
So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch  ! 
So  grows  the  leathery  Fox  a  Bursch ! 

Sa!  Sa! 

Fox  a  Btirsch ! 
So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch ! 

At  length  the  song  was  finished.  Meanwhile 
large  tufts  and  strips  of  paper  had  been  twisted 
into  the  hair  of  the  Branders,  as  those  are  called 
who  have  been  already  one  term  at  the  University, 
and  then  at  a  given  signal  were  set  on  fire,  and  the 
Branders  rode  round  the  table  on  chairs  amid 
roars  of  laughter.  When  this  ceremony  was  com- 
pleted, the  President  rose  and  in  a  solemn  voice 
pronounced  a  long  discourse,  in  which  old  coUege 
jokes  were  mingled  with  much  parental  advice  to 
young  men  on  entering  life,  and  the  whole  was 


A   BEER-SCANDAL  91 

profusely  garnished  with  select  passages  from  the 
Old  Testament.  Then  they  all  seated  themselves 
at  the  table  and  the  heavy  beer-drinking  set  in,  as 
among  the  Gods  and  Heroes  of  the  old  Northern 
mythology. 

"  Brander !  Brander !  "  screamed  a  youth  whose 
face  was  hot  and  flushed  with  supper  and  with 
beer ;  "  Brander,  I  say  !  Thou  art  a  Doctor  I  No, 
—  a  Pope  ;  —  thou  art  a  Pope,  by  — !  " 

These  words  were  addressed  to  a  pale,  quiet- 
looking  person,  who  sat  opposite,  and  was  busy  in 
making  a  wretched  shaved  poodle  sit  on  his  hind 
legs  in  a  chair,  by  his  master's  side,  and  hold  a 
short  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth,  —  a  performance  to 
which  the  poodle  seemed  nowise  inclined. 

"  Thou  art  challenged !  "  replied  the  pale  stu- 
dent, turning  from  his  dog,  who  dropped  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  leaped  under  the  table. 

Seconds  were  chosen  on  the  spot,  and  the  arms 
ordered ;  namely,  six  mighty  goblets,  or  Bass- 
gliiser,  filled  to  the  brim  with  foaming  beer. 
Three  were  placed  before  each  duellist. 

"  Take  your  weapons !  "  cried  one  of  the  sec- 
onds, and  each  of  the  combatants  seized  a  goblet 
in  his  hand. 

"  Strike !  " 

And  the  glasses  rang,  with  a  salutation  like  the 
crossing  of  swords. 

"  Set  to  !  " 

Each  set  the  goblet  to  his  lips. 

"Out!" 

And.  each  poured  the  contents  down  his  throat, 
as  if  he  were  pouring  them  through  a  tunnel  into 


92  HYPERION 

a  beer-barrel.  The  other  two  glasses  followed  in 
quick  succession,  lianlly  a  loug  breath  drawn  be- 
tween. The  pale  student  was  victorious.  He  was 
first  to  drain  the  third  goblet.  He  held  it  for  a 
moment  inverted,  to  let  the  last  drops  full  out,  and 
then,  placing  it  quietly  on  the  table,  looked  his 
antagonist  in  the  face,  and  said  :  — 

"  Hit !  " 

Then,  with  the  greatest  coolness,  looking  under 
the  table,  he  whistled  for  his  dog.  His  antagonist 
stopped  midway  in  his  third  glass.  Every  vein  in 
his  forehead  seemed  bursting ;  his  eyes  were  wild 
and  bloodshot,  his  hand  gradually  loosened  its  hold 
upon  the  table,  and  he  sank  and  rolled  together 
like  a  sheet  of  lead.     He  was  drunk. 

At  this  moment  a  majestic  figure  came  stalking 
do^^^l  the  table,  ghost-like,  through  the  dim,  smoky 
atmosphere.  His  coat  was  off,  his  neck  bare,  his 
hair  wild,  his  eyes  wide  open,  and  looking  straight 
before  him,  as  if  he  saw  some  beckoning  hand  in 
the  air,  that  others  could  not  see.  His  left  hand 
was  upon  his  hip,  and  in  his  right  he  held  a  drawn 
sword  extended  and  pointing  dowTiward.  Regard- 
less of  every  one,  erect,  and  with  a  martial  stride, 
he  marched  directly  along  the  centre  of  the  table, 
crushing  glasses  and  overthrowing  bottles  at  every 
step.  The  students  shrank  back  at  his  approach  ; 
till  at  length  one  more  intoxicated,  or  more  cou- 
rageous, than  the  rest,  dashed  a  glass  full  of  beer 
into  his  face.  A  general  tumult  ensued,  and  the 
student  with  the  sword  leaped  to  the  floor.  It  was 
Von  Ivleist.  He  was  rcnownlng  it.  In  the  midst 
of  the  uproar  could  be  distinguished  the  offensive 
words  :  — 


THE    WHITE  LADY'S  SLIPPER  93 

"  Arrogant !  Absurd  !  Im^sertinent !  Dummer 
Juuge !  " 

Von  Kleist  went  home  that  night  with  no  less 
than  six  duels  on  his  hands.  He  fought  them  all 
out  in  as  many  days,  and  came  oft'  with  only  a 
gash  through  his  upper  lip  and  another  through 
his  right  eyelid  from  a  dexterous  Suabian  Schliiger. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WHITE    lady's    SLIPPER    AND    THE    PASSION- 
FLOWER. 

That  nisfht  Emma  of  Ilmenau  went  to  her  cham- 
ber  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  her  dusky  eyes  were 
troubled  with  tears.  She  was  one  of  those  gen- 
tle beings  who  seem  created  only  to  love  and  to 
be  loved.  A  shade  of  melancholy  softened  her 
character.  She  shunned  the  glare  of  daylight  and 
of  society,  and  wished  to  be  alone.  Like  the  even- 
ing primrose,  her  heart  opened  only  after  sunset, 
but  bloomed  through  the  dark  night  with  sweet 
fragrance.  Her  mother,  on  the  contrary,  flaunted 
in  the  garish  light  of  society.  There  was  no 
sympathy  between  them.  Their  souls  never  ap- 
proached, never  understood  each  other,  and  words 
were  often  spoken  which  wounded  deeply.  And 
therefore  Emma  of  Ilmenau  went  to  her  chamber 
that  night  with  tears  In  her  eyes. 

She  was  followed  by  her  French  chamber-maid, 
Madeleine,  a  native  of  Strasburg,  who  had  grown 
old  in  the  family.  In  her  youth,  she  had  been 
poor,  —  and  virtuous,  because  she  had  never  been 


94  HYPERION 

tempted ;  and  now  that  she  had  grown  old,  and 
seen  no  inunediate  reward  for  her  virtue,  as  is 
usual  with  weak  minds,  she  despaired  of  Provi- 
dence, and  regretted  she  had  never  been  tempted. 
Whilst  this  unfortunate  personage  was  lighting 
the  wax  tapers  on  the  toilet,  and  drawing  the  bed- 
curtains,  and  tattling  about  the  room,  Emma  threw 
herself  into  an  arm-chair,  and,  crossing  her  hands 
in  her  lap,  and  letting  her  head  fall  upon  her 
bosom,  seemed  lost  in  a  dream. 

"•  AMiy  have  these  gentle  feelings  been  given 
me  ?  "  said  she  in  her  heart.  "  Why  have  I  been 
born  with  all  these  warm  affections,  these  ardent 
longings  after  what  is  good,  if  they  lead  only  to 
sorrow  and  disappointment?  I  would  love  sorae 
one,  —  love  him  once  and  for  ever ;  —  devote  my- 
self to  him  alone,  —  live  for  him,  —  die  for  him, 

—  exist  alone  in  him  I  But,  alas  !  in  all  this  wide 
world  there  is  none  to  love  me  as  I  would  be  loved, 

—  none  w  hom  I  may  love  as  I  am  capable  of  lov- 
ing. How  empty,  how  desolate,  seems  the  world 
about  me  !  Why  has  Heaven  given  me  these  af- 
fections, only  to  fall  and  fade  ?  " 

Alas !  poor  child !  thou  too  must  learn,  like 
others,  that  the  sublime  mystery  of  Providence 
goes  on  in  silence,  and  gives  no  explanation  of  it- 
self, —  no  answer  to  our  impatient  questionings  ! 

"  Bless  me,  child,  what  ails  you  ? "  exclaimed 
Madeleine,  perceiving  that  Emma  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  her  idle  gossip.  "When  I  was  of  your 
age"- 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me  now,  good  Madeleina 
Leave  me,  I  wish  to  be  alone." 


THE    WHITE  LADY'S  SLIPPER  95 

"  Well,  here  is  something,"  contiuuetl  the  maid, 
taking-  a  billet  from  her  bosom,  "  which  I  hope  will 
enliven  you.     When  I  was  of  your  age  "  — 

"  Hush  I  hush  !  "  said  P^mma,  taking  the  billet 
from  the  hard  hand  of  Madeleine.  "  Once  more 
I  beg  you,  leave  me.     I  wish  to  be  alone." 

Madeleine  took  the  lamp  and  retired  slowly, 
wishing  her  young  mistress  many  good  nights  and 
rosy  dreams.  Emma  broke  the  seal  of  the  note. 
As  she  read,  her  face  became  deadly  pale,  and  then, 
quick  as  thought,  a  crimson  blush  gleamed  on 
her  cheek,  and  her  hands  trembled.  Tenderness, 
pity,  love,  offended  pride,  the  weakness  and  dig- 
nity of  woman,  were  all  mingled  in  her  look,  chang- 
ing and  passing  over  her  fine  countenance  like 
cloud-shadows.  She  sunk  back  in  her  chair,  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  hands,  as  if  she  would  hide 
it  from  herself  and  Heaven. 

"  He  loves  me  !  "  said  she  to  herself ;  "  loves 
me;  and  is  married  to  another,  whom  he  loves 
not !  and  dares  to  tell  me  this !  Oh,  never,  — 
never,  —  never!  And  yet  he  is  so  friendless  and 
alone  in  this  unsympathizing  world,  and  an  exile, 
and  homeless !  I  can  but  pity  him  ;  yet  I  hate 
him,  and  will  see  him  no  more !  " 

This  short  reverie  of  love  and  hate  was  broken 
by  the  sound  of  a  clear,  mellow  voice,  which,  in  the 
universal  stillness  of  the  hour,  seemed  almost  like 
the  voice  of  a  spirit.  It  was  a  voice,  without  the 
accompaniment  of  any  instrument,  singing  those 
beautiful  lines  which  Goethe  wrote  on  the  wall  of  a 
summer-house  at  Ilmenau  :  — 


96  HYPERION 

O'er  all  the  liill-tops  is  quiet  now ! 
In  all  the  woodlands  hearest  thou 

Hardly  a  sound  ! 
The  little  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees ; 
Wait !   wait !   and  soon,  like  these, 

Sieepest  thou ! 

Emma  knew  the  voice,  and  started.  She  rushed 
to  the  window  to  close  it.  It  was  a  beantifid  night, 
and  the  stars  were  shining  peacefully  over  the 
mountain  of  All-Saints.  The  sound  of  the  Neckar 
was  soft  and  low  ;  nightingales  were  singing  among 
the  brown  shadows  of  the  woods  ;  the  large  red 
moon  shone  like  a  ruby,  in  the  horizon's  ample 
ring ;  and  golden  threads  of  light  seemed  braided 
together  with  the  rippling  current  of  the  river. 
Tall  and  spectral  stood  the  white  statues  on  the 
bridge.  The  outlines  of  the  hills,  the  castle,  the 
arches  of  the  bridge,  and  the  spires  and  roofs  of 
the  tow^n,  were  as  strongly  marked  as  if  cut  out 
of  pasteboard.  Amid  this  fairy  scene,  a  little 
boat  was  floating  silently  down  the  stream.  Emma 
closed  the  window  hastily,  and  drew  the  curtains 
close. 

"  I  hate  him  ;  and  yet  I  will  pray  for  him,"  said 
she,  as  she  laid  her  weary  head  upon  that  pillow, 
from  which,  but  a  few  months  before,  she  thought 
she  shoidd  never  raise  it  again.  "  Oh  that  I  had 
died  then !  I  dare  not  love  him,  but  I  will  pray 
for  him !  " 

Sweet  child  !  If  the  face  of  the  deceiver  comes 
so  often  between  thee  and  Heaven,  I  tremble  for 
thy  fate  !  The  plant  that  sprang  from  Helen's 
tears  destroyed  serpents ;  woidd  that  from  thine 
might   spring    up   heart's-ease,  —  some   plant,  at 


GLIMPSES  INTO   CLOUD-LAND  97 

least,  to  destroy  the  serpents  in  tliy  bosom  !  Be- 
lieve me,  upon  the  margin  of  celestial  streams  alone 
those  simples  grow  which  cure  the  heart-ache  ! 

And  this  the  silent  stars  beheld,  looking  down 
from  heaven,  and  told  it  not  again.  This  like- 
wise the  Fran  Himmelauen  beheld,  looking  from 
her  chamber-window,  and  was  not  so  discreet  as 
the  silent  stars. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GLIMPSES    INTO    CLOUD-LAND. 

"  There  are  many  things  which,  having  no  cor- 
poreal evidence,  can  be  perceived  and  compre- 
hended only  by  the  discursive  energies  of  reason. 
Hence  the  ambiguous  nature  of  matter  can  be 
comprehended  only  by  adulterated  opinion.  Mat- 
ter is  the  principle  of  all  bodies,  and  is  stamped 
with  the  impression  of  forms.  Fire,  air,  and  water 
derive  their  origin  and  principle  from  the  scalene 
triangle.  But  the  earth  was  created  from  right- 
angled  triangles,  of  which  two  of  the  sides  are 
equal.  The  sphere  and  the  pyramid  contain  in 
themselves  the  figure  of  fire  ;  but  the  octahedron 
was  destined  to  be  the  figure  of  air,  and  the  icosa- 
hedron  of  water.  The  right-angled  isosceles  tri- 
angle produces  from  itself  a  square,  and  the  square 
generates  from  itself  the  cube,  which  is  the  figure 
peculiar  to  earth.  But  the  figure  of  a  beauti- 
ful and  perfect  sphere  was  imparted  to  the  most 
beautiful  and  perfect  world,  that  it  might  be  indi- 
gent of  nothing,  but  contain  all  things,  embracing 


98  HYPERION 

and  comprehenclini^  tlicm  in  itself,  and  thus  might 
be  ext'cllent  and  admirable,  similar  to  and  in  con- 
cord with  itself,  ever  moving  musically  and  melo- 
diously. If  I  use  a  novel  language,  excuse  me. 
As  Apuleius  says,  pardon  must  be  granted  to  nov- 
elty of  words,  when  it  serves  to  illustrate  the  ob- 
scurity of  things." 

These  words  came  from  the  lips  of  the  lion-like 
philosopher  who  has  been  noticed  before  in  these 
pages.  He  was  sitting  with  Flemming,  smoking  a 
long  pipe.  As  the  Baron  said,  he  was  indeed  a 
strange  owl,  for  the  owl  is  a  grave  bird  ;  a  monk, 
who  chants  midnight  mass  in  the  great  temple 
of  Nature  ;  an  anchorite,  a  pillar  saint,  the  very 
Simeon  Stylites  of  his  neighborhood.  Such,  like- 
wise, was  the  philosophical  Professor.  Solitary, 
but  with  a  mighty  current,  flowed  the  river  of  his 
life,  like  the  Nile,  without  a  tributary  stream,  and 
making  fertile  only  a  single  strip  in  the  vast  desert. 
Ilis  temperament  had  been  in  youth  a  joyous  one  ; 
and  now,  amid  all  his  sorrows  and  privations,  — 
for  he  had  many,  —  he  looked  upon  the  world  as 
a  glad,  bright,  glorious  world.  On  the  many  joys 
of  life  he  gazed  still  with  the  eyes  of  childhood, 
from  the  far-gone  Past  upward,  trusting,  hoping  ; 
—  and  upon  its  sorrows  with  the  eyes  of  age,  from 
the  distant  Future,  downward,  triumphant,  not  de- 
spairing. He  loved  solitude,  and  silence,  and  can- 
dle-light, and  the  deep  midnight.  "  For,"  said  he, 
"  if  the  morning  hours  are  the  wings  of  the  day, 
I  only  fold  them  about  me  to  sleep  more  sweetly  ; 
knowing  that,  at  its  other  extremity,  the  day,  like 
the  fowls  of  the  air,  has  an  epicurean  morsel,  —  a 


GLIMPSES  INTO   CLOUD-LAND  99 

parson's  nose  ;  and  on  this  oily  midnight  my  spirit 
revels  and  is  glad." 

Such  was  the  Professor,  who  had  been  talking 
in  a  half-intelligible  strain  for  two  hours  or  more. 
The  Baron  had  fallen  fast  asleep  in  his  chair  ;  but 
Flemming  sat  listening  with  excited  imagination, 
and  the  Professor  continued  in  the  following  words, 
wliich,  to  the  best  of  his  listener's  memory,  seemed 
gleaned  here  and  there  from  Fichte's  Destiny  of 
Man,  and  Schubert's  History  of  the  SoiU. 

"  Life  is  one  and  universal,  its  forms  many  and 
individual.  Throughout  this  beautiful  and  won- 
derful creation  there  is  never-ceasing  motion,  with- 
out rest  by  night  or  day,  ever  weaving  to  and 
fro.  Swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle  it  flies  from 
Birth  to  Death,  from  Death  to  Birth  ;  from  the 
beginning  seeks  the  end,  and  finds  it  not,  for  the 
seeming  end  is  only  a  dim  beginning  of  a  new 
out-going  and  endeavor  after  the  end.  As  the 
ice  upon  the  mountain,  when  the  warm  breath  of 
the  summer  sun  breathes  upon  it,  melts,  and 
divides  into  drops,  each  of  which  reflects  an  image 
of  the  sun ;  so  life,  in  the  smile  of  God's  love, 
divides  itself  into  separate  forms,  each  bearing  in 
it  and  reflecting  an  image  of  God's  love.  Of  all 
these  forms  the  highest  and  most  perfect  in  its 
God-likeness  is  the  human  soul.  The  vast  cathe- 
dral  of  Nature  is  full  of  holy  scriptures,  and  shapes 
of  deep,  mysterious  meaning,  but  all  is  solitary 
and  silent  there  —  no  bending  knee,  no  uplifted 
eye,  no  lip  adoring,  praying.  Into  this  vast  cathe- 
dral comes  the  human  soul,  seeking  its  Ci'eator  ; 
and  the  universal  silence  is  changed  to  sound,  and 


100  HYPERION 

the  sound  is  harmonious,  and  has  a  meaning,  and 
is  comprehended  and  felt.  It  was  an  ancient  say- 
ing of  the  Persians,  that  the  waters  rush  from  the 
mountains  and  hurry  forth  into  all  the  lands  to  find 
the  Lord  of  the  Earth  ;  and  the  flame  of  the  fire, 
when  it  awakes,  gazes  no  more  upon  the  ground, 
but  mounts  heavenward,  to  seek  the  Lord  of 
Heaven  ;  and  here  and  there  the  Earth  has  built 
the  great  watch-towers  of  the  mountains,  and  they 
lift  their  heads  far  up  into  the  sky,  and  gaze  ever 
upward  and  around,  to  see  if  the  Judge  of  the 
World  comes  not !  Thus  in  Nature  herself,  without 
man,  there  lies  a  waiting  and  hoping,  a  looking  and 
yearning,  after  an  unknown  somewhat.  Yes ;  when, 
above  there,  where  the  mountain  lifts  its  head 
over  all  others,  that  it  may  be  alone  with  the 
clouds  and  storms  of  heaven,  the  lonely  eagle  looks 
forth  into  the  gray  dawn,  to  see  if  the  day  comes 
not ;  when,  by  the  mountain  torrent,  the  brooding 
raven  listens  to  hear  if  the  chamois  is  returning 
from  his  nightly  jjasture  in  the  valley  ;  and  when 
the  soon  uprising  sun  calls  out  the  spicy  odors  of 
the  thousand  flowers,  the  Alpine  flowers,  with 
heaven's  deep  blue  and  the  blush  of  sunset  on  their 
leaves  ;  —  then  there  awake  in  Nature,  and  the 
soul  of  man  can  see  and  comprehend  them,  an  ex- 
pectation and  a  longing  for  a  future  revelation  of 
God's  majesty.  They  awake,  also,  when,  in  the 
fulness  of  life,  field  and  forest  rest  at  noon,  and 
through  the  stillness  are  heard  only  the  song  of 
the  grasshopper  and  the  hum  of  the  bee ;  and  when 
at  evening  the  singing  lark  up  from  the  sweet- 
smelling  vineyards  rises,  or  in  the  later  hours  of 


GLIMPSES  INTO   CLOUD-LAND  101 

night  Orion  puts  on  his  shining  armor,  to  walk 
forth  into  the  fields  of  heaven.  But  in  the  soul  of 
man  alone  is  this  longing  changed  to  certainty,  and 
fulfilled.  For,  lo  !  the  light  of  the  sun  and  the 
stars  shines  through  the  air,  and  is  nowhere  visible 
and  seen ;  the  planets  hasten  with  more  than  the 
speed  of  the  storm  through  infinite  space,  and  their 
footsteps  are  not  heard  ;  but  where  the  sunlight 
strikes  the  firm  surface  of  the  planets,  where  the 
storm-wind  smites  the  wall  of  the  mountain  cliff, 
there  is  the  one  seen  and  the  other  heard.  Thus 
is  the  glory  of  God  made  visible,  and  may  be  seen, 
where  in  the  soul  of  man  It  meets  Its  likeness 
changeless  and  steadfast.    Thus,  then,  stands  Man ; 

—  a  mountain  on  the  boundary  between  two  worlds ; 

—  its  foot  in  one,  its  summit  far-rising  into  the 
other.  From  this  summit  the  manifold  landscape 
of  life  is  visible,  the  way  of  the  Past  and  Perish- 
able, which  we  have  left  behind  us  ;  and  as  we 
evermore  ascend,  bright  glimpses  of  the  daybreak 
of  Eternity  beyond  us  !  " 

Flemming  would  fain  have  interrupted  this  dis- 
course at  times,  to  answer  and  inquire  ;  but  the 
Professor  went  on,  warming  and  glowing  more  and 
more."  At  length  there  was  a  short  pause,  and 
Flemming  said  :  — 

"  All  these  indefinite  longings,  these  yearnings 
after  an  unknown  somewhat,  I  have  felt  and  still 
feel  within  me,  but  not  yet  their  fulfilment." 

"  That  is  because  you  have  not  faith,"  answered 
the  Professor.  "  The  Present  is  an  age  of  doubt, 
and  disbelief,  and  darkness  ;  out  of  which  shall 
arise  a  clear  and  bright  Hereafter.     In  the  second 


102  HYPERION 

part  of  Goethe's  Faust,  there  is  a  grand  and  strik- 
ing scene,  where  in  the  classical  A\'al|)urgis  Night, 
on  the  Pharsalian  Plains,  the  mocking  Mephis- 
topheles  sits  down  between  the  solemn  antique 
Sphinxes,  and  boldly  questions  them,  and  reads 
their  riddles.  The  red  light  of  innumerable  watch- 
fires  glares  round  about,  and  shines  upon  the  terri- 
ble face  of  the  arch-scoffer ;  while  on  either  side, 
severe,  majestic,  solemnly  serene,  we  behold  the 
gigantic  forms  of  the  children  of  Chimaera,  half 
buried  in  the  sand,  their  mild  eyes  gazing  fixedly, 
as  if  they  heard  through  the  midnight  the  swift- 
rushing  wings  of  the  Stymphalides,  striving  to  out- 
strip the  speed  of  xVlcides'  arrows !  Angry  Griffins 
are  near  them,  and  not  far  are  Sirens,  singing 
their  wondrous  songs  from  the  rocking  branches 
of  the  willow-trees  I  Even  thus  does  a  scoffing  and 
unbelieving  Present  sit  down  between  an  unknown 
Future  and  a  too  believing  Past,  and  question  and 
challenge  the  gigantic  forms  of  Faith,  half  buried 
in  the  sands  of  Time,  and  gazing  forwat-d  stead- 
fasti}^  into  the  night,  whilst  sounds  of  anger  and 
voices  of  delight  alternate  vex  and  soothe  the  ear 
of  man  !  —  But  the  time  will  come  when  the  soul 
of  man  shall  return  again  childlike  and  trustful  to 
its  faith  in  God,  and  look  God  in  the  face  and  die  ; 
for  it  is  an  old  saying,  full  of  deep,  mysterious 
meaning,  that  he  must  die  who  hath  looked  upon 
a  God.  And  this  is  the  fate  of  the  soul,  that  it 
should  die  continually.  No  sooner  here  on  earth 
does  it  aw^ake  to  its  peculiar  being,  than  it  strug- 
gles to  behold  and  compreheud  the  Spirit  of  Life. 
In  the  first  dim  twilight  of  its  existence,  it  beholds 


GLIMPSES  INTO   CLOUD-LAND         103 

this  spirit,  is  pervaded  by  its  energies,  —  is  quick 
and  creative  like  the  spirit  itself,  and  yet  slumbers 
away  into  death  after  having  seen  it.  But  the 
image  it  has  seen  remains  ;  in  the  eternal  procrea- 
tion, as  a  homogeneal  existence,  is  again  renewed, 
and  the  seeming  death,  from  moment  to  moment, 
becomes  the  source  of  kind  after  kind  of  existences 
in  ever-ascending  series.  The  soul  aspires  ever 
onward  to  love  and  to  behold.  It  sees  the  imag:e 
more  perfect  in  the  brightening  twilight  of  the 
da%\Ti,  in  the  ever  higher-rising  sun.  It  sleeps 
again,  dying  in  the  clearer  vision  ;  but  the  image 
seen  remains  as  a  permanent  kind  ;  and  the  sluni- 
berer  awakes  anew  and  ever  higher  after  its  own 
image,  till  at  length,  in  the  full  blaze  of  noonday, 
a  being  comes  forth,  which,  like  the  eagle,  can  be- 
hold the  sun  and  die  not.  Then  both  live  on,  even 
when  this  bodily  element,  the  mist  and  vapor 
through  which  the  young  eagle  gazed,  dissolves 
and  falls  to  earth." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  you,"  said 
Flemming ;  "  but  if  I  do,  you  mean  to  say,  that, 
as  the  body  continually  changes  and  takes  unto  it- 
self new  properties,  and  is  not  the  same  to-day  as 
yesterday,  so  likewise  the  soul  lays  aside  its  idi- 
osyncrasies, and  is  changed  by  acquiring  new  j)ow- 
ers,  and  thus  may  be  said  to  die.  And  hence, 
properly  speaking,  the  soul  lives  always  in  the 
Present,  and  has,  and  can  have,  no  Future ;  for 
the  Future  becomes  the  Present,  and  the  soul  that 
then  lives  in  me  is  a  higher  and  more  perfect  soul, 
and  so  onward  for  evermore." 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  continued  the  Professor ; 


104  HYPERION 

"  and  can  find  no  more  appropriate  language 
to  express  my  meaning  than  that  whieli  I  have 
used.  But,  as  I  said  before,  pardon  nmst  be 
granted  to  the  novelty  of  words,  when  it  serves  to 
illustrate  the  obscurity  of  things.  And  I  think 
you  will  see  clearly  from  what  I  have  said,  that 
this  earthly  life,  when  seen  hereafter  from  heaven, 
will  seem  like  an  hour  passed  long  ago,  and  dimly 
remembered  ;  —  that  long,  laborious,  full  of  joys 
and  sorrows  as  it  is,  it  will  then  have  dwindled 
down  to  a  mere  point,  hardly  visible  to  the  far- 
reaching  ken  of  the  disembodied  spirit.  But  the 
spirit  itself  soars  onward.  And  thus  death  is 
neither  an  end  nor  a  beginning.  It  is  a  transition, 
not  from  one  existence  to  another,  but  from  one 
state  of  existence  to  another.  No  link  is  broken 
in  the  chain  of  being,  any  more  than  in  passing 
from  infancy  to  manhood,  from  manhood  to  old 
age.  There  are  seasons  of  reverie  and  deep  ab- 
straction, which  seem  to  me  analogous  to  death. 
The  soul  gradually  loses  its  consciousness  of  what 
is  passing  around  it,  and  takes  no  longer  cogni- 
zance of  objects  which  are  near.  It  seems  for  the 
moment  to  have  dissolved  its  connection  with  the 
body.  It  has  passed,  as  it  were,  into  another  state 
of  being.  It  lives  in  another  world.  It  has  flown 
over  lands  and  seas,  and  holds  communion  with 
those  it  loves,  in  distant  regions  of  the  earth,  and 
the  more  distant  heaven.  It  sees  familiar  faces 
and  hears  beloved  voices,  which  to  the  bodily  senses 
are  no  longer  visible  and  audible.  And  this  like- 
wise is  death  ;  save  that,  when  we  die,  the  soul 
returns  no  more  to  the  dwelling  it  has  left." 


GLIMPSES  INTO   CLOUD-LAND  105 

"  You  seem  to  take  it  for  granted,"  interrupted 
Flemming,  "  that,  iu  our  reveries,  the  soul  really 
goes  out  of  the  body  into  distant  places,  instead  of 
summoning  up  their  semblance  within  itself  by 
the  power  of  memory  and  imagination." 

"  Something  I  must  take  for  granted,"  replied 
the  Professor.  "  We  will  not  discuss  that  point 
now.  I  speak  not  without  forethought.  Just  ob- 
serve what  a  glorious  thing  human  life  is,  when 
seen  in  this  light ;  and  how  glorious  man's  destiny. 
I  am ;  thou  art ;  he  is !  seems  but  a  school-boy's 
conjugation.  But  therein  lies  a  mysterious  mean- 
ingf.  We  behold  all  round  about  us  one  vast 
union,  in  which  no  man  can  labor  for  himself, 
without  laboring  at  the  same  time  for  all  others ; 
a  glimpse  of  truth,  which,  by  the  universal  har- 
mony of  things,  becomes  an  inward  benediction, 
and  lifts  the  soul  mightily  upward.  Still  more  so, 
when  a  man  regards  himself  as  a  necessary  mem- 
ber of  this  union.  The  feeling  of  our  dignity  and 
our  power  grows  strong,  when  we  say  to  ourselves  : 
My  being  is  not  objectless  and  in  vain  ;  I  am  a 
necessary  link  in  the  great  chain,  which,  from  the 
full  development  of  consciousness  in  the  first  man, 
reaches  forward  into  eternity.  All  the  great  and 
wise  and  good  among  mankind,  all  the  benefactors 
of  the  human  race,  whose  names  I  read  in  the 
world's  history,  and  the  still  greater  number  of 
those  whose  good  deeds  have  outlived  their  names, 
—  all  those  have  labored  for  me.  I  have  entered 
into  their  harvest.  I  walk  the  green  earth  which 
they  inhabited.  I  tread  in  their  footsteps,  from 
which  blessings  gTow.     I  can  undertake  the  sub' 


106  IIYPKIUOiV 

lime  task  which  they  once  undertook,  the  task  of 
making  our  common  brotherhood  wiser  and  hap- 
pier. I  can  build  forward,. where  tliey  wereiorced 
to  leave  off,  and  bring  nearer  to  perfection  the 
groat  edifice  which  they  left  uncomj)leted.  And  at 
length  I,  too,  must  leave  it,  and  go  hence.  Oh, 
this  is  the  sublimest  thought  of  all !  I  can  never 
finish  the  noble  task  ;  therefore,  so  sure  as  this 
task  is  my  destiny,  I  can  never  cease  to  work,  and 
consequently  never  cease  to  be.  What  men  call 
death  cannot  break  off  this  task,  which  is  never- 
ending  ;  consequently  no  period  is  set  to  my  being, 
and  I  am  eternal.  I  lift  my  head  boldly  to  the 
threatening  mountain-peaks,  and  to  the  roaring 
cataract,  and  to  the  storm-clouds  swimming  in  the 
fire-sea  overhead,  and  say,  —  I  am  eternal  and 
defy  your  power !  Break,  break  over  me  !  and 
thou  Earth,  and  thou  Heaven,  mingle  in  the  wild 
tumult !  and  ye  Elements,  foam  and  rage,  and  de- 
stroy this  atom  of  dust,  —  this  body,  which  I  call 
mine  !  My  will  alone,  with  its  fixed  purpose,  shall 
hover  brave  and  triumphant  over  the  ruins  of  the 
universe  ;  for  I  have  comprehended  my  destiny ; 
and  it  is  more  durable  than  ye !  It  is  eternal ;  and 
I,  who  recognize  it,  I  likewise  am  eternal !  Tell 
me,  my  friend,  have  you  no  faith  in  this  ?  " 

'''  I  have,"  answei'ed  Elemming,  and  there  was 
another  pause.     He  then  said  :  — 

"  I  have  listened  to  you  patiently  and  without 
interruption.  Now  listen  to  me.  You  complain 
of  the  scepticism  of  the  age.  This  is  one  form  in 
which  the  philosophic  sjjirit  of  the  age  presents  it- 
self.    Let  me  tell  you  that  another  form  which  it 


GLIMPSES  INTO   CLOUD-LAND         107 

assumes  is  that  of  poetic  reverie.  Plato  of  old 
had  dreams  like  these,  and  the  Mystics  of  the 
Middle  Ages  ;  and  still  their  disciples  walk  in  the 
cloud-land  and  dream-land  of  this  poetic  philos- 
ophy. Pleasant  and  cool  upon  their  souls  lie  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  under  which  Plato  taught. 
From  their  whispering  leaves  comes  wafted  across 
the  noise  of  populous  centuries  a  solemn  and  mys- 
terious sound,  which  to  them  is  the  voice  of  the 
Soul  of  the  World.  All  nature  has  become  spiritu- 
alized and  transfigured ;  and,  wrapped  in  beautiful, 
vague  dreams  of  the  real  and  the  ideal,  they  live  in 
this  green  world,  like  the  little  child  in  the  German 
tale,  who  sits  by  the  margin  of  a  woodland  lake, 
and  hears  the  blue  heaven  and  the  branches  over- 
head dispute  with  their  reflection  in  the  water, 
which  is  the  reality  and  which  the  image.  I  will- 
ingly confess  that  such  day-dreams  as  these  appeal 
strongly  to  my  imagination.  Visitants  and  attend- 
ants are  they  of  those  lofty  souls  which,  soaring 
ever  higher  and  higher,  build  themselves  nests  under 
the  very  eaves  of  the  stars,  forgetful  that  they  can- 
not live  on  air,  but  must  descend  to  earth  for  food. 
Yet  I  recognize  them  as  day-dreams  only ;  as  shad- 
ows, not  substantial  things.  What  I  mainly  dis- 
like in  the  New  Philosophy  is  the  cool  impertinence 
with  which  an  old  idea  folded  in  a  new  garment 
looks  you  in  the  face  and  pretends  not  to  know 
you,  though  you  have  been  familiar  friends  from 
childhood.  I  remember  an  English  author,  who, 
in  speaking  of  your  German  philosophies,  says 
very  wisely :  '  Often  a  proposition  of  inscrutable 
and  dread  aspect,  when  resolutely  grappled  with, 


108  HYPERION 

and  torn  from  its  shady  den  and  its  bristling  in- 
trencLnients  of  uneontli  terminology,  and  dragged 
forth  into  the  open  light  of  day,  to  be  seen  by  the 
natural  eye  and  tried  by  merely  human  understand- 
ing, proves  to  be  a  very  harmless  truth,  familiar 
to  us  from  old,  sometimes  so  familiar  as  to  be  a 
truism.  Too  frequently  the  anxious  novice  is  re- 
minded of  Dryden  in  the  Battle  of  the  Books  ; 
there  is  a  helmet  of  rusty  iron,  dark,  grim,  gigan- 
tic, and  within  it,  at  the  farthest  corner,  is  a  head 
no  bigger  than  a  walnut.'  —  Can  you  believe  that 
these  words  ever  came  from  the  pen  of  Thomas 
Carlyle  ?  He  has  himself  taken  up  the  uncouth 
terminology,  of  late,  and  many  pure,  sim])le  minds 
are  much  offended  at  it.  They  seem  to  take  it  as 
a  personal  insult.  They  are  angry,  and  deny  the 
just  meed  of  praise.  It  is,  however,  hardly  worth 
while  to  lose  our  presence  of  mind.  Let  us  rather 
profit  as  we  may,  even  from  this  spectacle,  and 
recognize  the  monarch  in  his  masquerade.  For, 
hooded  and  wrapped  about  with  that  strange  and 
antique  garb,  there  walks  a  kingly,  a  most  royal 
soul,  even  as  the  Emperor  Charles  walked  amid 
solemn  cloisters  under  a  monk's  cowl,  —  a  mon- 
arch still  in  soul.  Such  things  are  not  new  in 
the  history  of  the  world.  Ever  and  anon  they 
sweep  over  the  earth,  and  blow  themselves  out 
soon ;  and  then  there  is  quiet  for  a  season, 
and  the  atmosphere  of  Truth  seems  more  serene. 
Why  would  you  preach  to-  the  wind  ?  Why  rea- 
son with  thunder-storms  ?  Better  sit  quiet,  and 
see  them  pass  over  like  a  pageant,  cloudy,  superb, 
and  vast." 


GLIMPSES  INTO  CLOUD-LAND         109 

The  Professor  smiled  self-complacently,  but  said 
not  a  word.     Flemining"  continued  :  — 

"  I  will  add  no  more  than  this,  —  there  are 
many  speculations  in  literature,  philosophy,  and 
religion,  which,  though  pleasant  to  walk  in,  and 
lying  under  the  shadow  of  great  names,  yet  lead 
to  no  important  residt.  They  resemble  rather 
those  roads  in  the  Western  forests  of  my  native 
land,  which,  though  broad  and  pleasant  at  first, 
and  lying  beneath  the  shadow  of  great  branches, 
finally  dwindle  to  a  squirrel  track,  and  run  up  a 
tree  !  " 

The  Professor  hardly  knew  whether  he  should 
laugh  or  be  offended  at  this  sally  :  and,  laying  his 
hand  upon  Flemming's  arm,  he  said  seriously  :  — 

"  Believe  me,  my  young  friend,  the  time  will 
come  when  you  will  think  more  wisely  on  these 
things.  And  with  you,  I  trust,  that  time  will 
soon  come,  since  it  moves  more  speedily  with 
some  than  with  others.  For  what  is  Time  ?  The 
shadow  on  the  dial,  the  striking  of  the  clock, 
the  running  of  the  sand,  day  and  night,  summer 
and  winter,  months,  years,  centuries  —  these  are 
but  arbitrary  and  outward  signs,  the  measure  of 
Time,  not  Time  itself.  Time  is  the  Life  of  the 
soul.     If  not  this,  then  tell  me,  what  is  Time  ?  " 

The  high  and  animated  tone  of  voice  in  which 
the  Professor  uttered  these  words  aroused  the 
Baron  from  his  sleep  ;  and,  not  distinctly  com- 
prehending what  was  s«iid,  but  thinking  the  Pro- 
fessor asked  what  time  it  was,  he  innocently  ex- 
claimed :  — 

"  I  should  think  it  must  be  near  midnight ! " 


110  HYPERION 

This  somewhat  disconcerted  the  Professor,  who 
took  his  leave  soon  afterward.  Wheu  he  was 
gone,  the  Baron  said :  — 

"  Excuse  me  for  treating  your  guest  so  cava- 
lierly. His  jihilosopliy  annoyed  me  not  a  little ; 
and  I  took  refuge  in  sleep.  One  would  think,  to 
judge  by  the  language  of  this  sect,  that  they  alone 
saw  any  beauty  in  Nature ;  and  when  I  hear  one 
of  them  discourse,  I  am  instantly  reminded  of 
Goethe's  Baccalaureus,  when  he  exclaims  :  '  The 
world  was  not,  before  I  created  it ;  I  brought  the 
sun  up  out  of  the  sea ;  with  me  began  the  change- 
ful course  of  the  moon ;  the  day  decked  itself  on 
my  account ;  the  earth  grew  green  and  blossomed 
to  meet  me ;  at  my  nod,  in  that  first  night,  the 
pomp  of  all  the  stars  developed  itself ;  who  but  I 
set  you  free  from  all  the  bonds  of  Philister-like, 
contracting  thoughts  ?  I,  however,  emancipated  as 
my  mind  assures  me  I  am,  gladly  pursue  my  in- 
ward light,  advance  boldly  in  a  transport  peculiarly 
my  own,  the  bright  before  me,  and  the  dark  be- 
hind ! '  —  Do  you  not  see  a  resemblance  ?  Oh,  they 
might  be  modest  enough  to  confess  that  one  strag- 
gling ray  of  light  may,  by  some  accident,  reach 
the  blind  eyes  of  even  us  poor,  benighted  hea- 
then !  " 

"  Alas  !  how  little  veneration  we  have  I  "  said 
Flemming.  "  I  could  not  help  closing  the  discus- 
sion with  a  jest.  An  ill-timed  levity  often  takes 
me  by  surprise.  On  all  such  occasions,  I  think  of 
a  scene  at  the  University,  where,  in  the  midst  of 
a  grave  discussion  on  the  possibility  of  Absolute 
Motion,  a  scholar  said  he  had  seen  a  rock  split 


MILL-WHEELS  AND   OTHER    WHEELS     111 

open,  from  which  sj)rang  a  toad,  who  could  not  be 
supposed  to  have  any  knowledge  of  the  external 
world,  and  consequently  his  motion  must  have  been 
absolute.  The  learned  Professor  who  presided  on 
that  occasion  was  hardly  more  startled  and  aston- 
ished than  was  our  learned  Professor,  five  minutes 
ago.  But  come ;  wind  up  your  watch,  and  let  us 
go  to  bed." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  the  Baron,  "  did  you  mind 
what  a  curious  head  he  has?  There  are  two 
crowns  upon  it." 

"  That  is  a  sign,"  replied  Flemming,  "  that  he 
will  eat  his  bread  in  two  kingdoms." 

"  I  tliink  the  poor  man  would  be  very  thankful," 
said^  the  Baron,  with  a  smile,  "  if  he  were  always 
sure  of  eating  it  in  one.  He  is  what  the  Tran- 
scendentalists  call  a  God-intoxicated  man ;  and  I 
advise  him,  as  Santeul  advised  Bossuet,  to  go  to 
Patmos  and  write  a  new  Apocalypse." 


CHAPTER  VII. 
MILL-WHEELS   AND   OTHER   WHEELS. 

A  few  days  after  this,  the  Baron  received  letters 
from  his  sister,  telling  him  that  her  physicians  had 
prescribed  a  few  weeks  at  the  Baths  of  Ems,  and 
ursrincf  him  to  meet  her  there  before  the  fashionable 
season. 

"  Come,"  said  he  to  Flemming ;  "  make  this 
short  journey  with  me.  We  will  pass  a  few  pleas- 
ant days  at  Ems,  and  visit  the  other  watermg- 
places  of  Nassau.     It  will  drive  away  the  melau- 


112  HYPERION 

choly  day-dreams  that  haunt  you.  Perhaps  some 
future  bride  is  even  now  waiting  for  you,  with  dim 
presentiments  and  undefined  longings,  at  the  Ser- 
pent's Bath." 

"  Or  some  widow  of  Ems,  with  a  cork  leg !  " 
said  Flemming,  smiling ;  and  then  added,  in  a  tone 
of  voice  half  jest,  half  earnest,  "  Certainly ;  let  us 
go  in  pursuit  of  her :  — 

"  Whoe'er  she  be, 
That  not  impossible  she, 
That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me : 
Where'er  she  lie, 
Hidden  from  mortal  eye, 
In  shady  leaves  of  destiny." 

They  started  in  the  afternoon  for  Frankfort,  pur- 
suing their  way  slowly  along  the  lovely  Bei'gstrasse, 
famed  throughout  Germany  for  its  beauty.  They 
passed  the  ruined  house  where  Martin  Luther  lay 
concealed  after  the  Diet  of  Worms,  and  through 
the  village  of  Ilandschuhsheimer,  as  old  as  the  days 
of  King  Pepin  the  Short,  —  a  hamlet,  lying  under 
the  hills,  half  buried  in  blossoms  and  green  leaves. 
Close  on  the  right  rose  the  mountains  of  the  mys- 
terious Odenwald ;  and  on  the  left  lay  the  Neckar, 
like  a  steel  bow  in  the  meadow.  Farther  westward, 
a  thin,  smoky  vapor  betrayed  the  course  of  the 
Rhine  ;  beyond  which,  like  a  troubled  sea,  ran  the 
blue,  billowy  Alsatian  hills.  Song  of  birds  and 
sound  of  evening  bells,  and  fragrance  of  sweet 
blossoms,  filled  the  air ;  and  silent  and  slow  sank 
the  broad  red  sun,  half  hidden  amid  folding  clouds. 

"  "We  shall  not  pass  the  night  at  "Weinheim," 
said    the    Baron    to   the    postilion,   who    had    dis- 


MILL-WHEELS  AND   OTHER    WHEELS     113 

mounted  to  walk  up  the  hill  leading  to  the  town. 
"  You  may  drive  to  the  mill  in  the  valley  of  Birk- 
enau." 

The  postilion  seized  one  of  his  fat  horses  by 
the  tail,  and  swung  himself  up  to  his  seat  again. 
They  rattled  over  the  paved  streets  of  Weinheimp 
and  took  no  heed  of  the  host  of  the  Golden  Eagle, 
who  stood  so  invitingly  at  the  door  of  his  own  inn  ; 
and  the  ruins  of  Burg  Windeck,  above  there,  on 
its  mountain  throne,  frowned  at  them  for  hurrying 
by,  without  staying  to  do  him  homage. 

"  The  old  ruin  looks  well  from  the  valley,"  said 
the  Baron ;  "  but  let  us  beware  of  climbing  that 
steep  hill.  Most  travellers  are  like  children  ;  they 
must  needs  touch  whatever  they  behold.  They 
climb  up  to  every  old  broken  tooth  of  a  castle 
which  they  find  on  their  way ;  get  a  toilsome 
ascent  and  hot  sunshine  for  their  pains,  and  come 
down  wearied  and  disappointed.  I  trust  we  are 
wiser." 

They  crossed  the  bridge,  and  turned  up  the 
stream,  passing  under  an  arch  of  stone  which 
serves  as  a  gateway  to  this  enchanted  valley  of 
Birkenau.  A  cool  and  lovely  valley,  shvit  in  by 
high  hills  ;  shaded  by  alder-trees  and  tall  pop- 
lars, under  which  rushes  the  Wechsnitz,  a  noisy 
mountain-brook,  that  ever  and  anon  puts  its  broad 
shoulder  to  the  wheel  of  a  mill,  and  shows  that  it 
can  labor  as  well  as  laug'h.  At  one  of  these  mills 
they  stopped  for  the  night. 

A  mill  forms  as  characteristic  a  feature  in  the 
romantic  German  landscape  as  in  the  romantic 
German  tale.     It  is  not  only  a  mill,  but  likewise 


114  HYPERION 

an  alehouse  and  rural  inn  ;  so  that  the  associations 
it  suggests  are  not  of  labor  only,  but  also  of  pleas- 
ure. It  stands  in  the  narrow  defile,  with  its  pic- 
turesque thatched  roof  ;  thither  throng  the  peas- 
ants, of  a  holiday ;  and  there  are  rustic  dances 
under  the  trees. 

In  the  twilight  of  the  fast-approaching  summer 
night,  the  Baron  and  Flemming  walked  forth  along 
the  borders  of  the  stream.  As  they  heard  it  rush- 
ing and  gushing  among  the  stones  and  tangled 
roots,  and  the  great  wheel  turning  in  the  current, 
with  its  never-ceasing  plash  !  plash !  it  brought  to 
their  minds  that  exquisite,  simple  song  of  Goethe, 
the  Youth  and  the  Mill-brook.  It  w^as  for  the 
moment  a  nymph  which  sang  to  them  in  the  voice 
of  the  waters. 

"  I  am  persuaded,"  said  Flemming,  "  that,  in 
order  fully  to  understand  and  feel  the  popular 
poetry  of  Germany,  one  must  be  familiar  with  the 
German  landscape.  Many  sweet  little  poems  are 
the  outbreaks  of  momentary  feelings  ;  —  words  to 
which  the  song  of  birds,  the  rustling  of  leaves,  and 
the  gurgle  of  cool  waters  form  the  appropriate 
music.  Or  perhaps  I  should  say  they  are  words 
which  man  has  composed  to  the  music  of  nature. 
Can  you  not,  even  now,  hear  this  brooklet  telling 
you  how  it  is  on  its  way  to  the  mill,  where  at  day- 
break the  miller's  daughter  opens  her  window,  and 
comes  down  to  bathe  her  face  in  its  stream,  and  her 
bosom  is  so  full  and  white  that  it  kindles  the  glow 
of  love  in  the  cool  waters  ?  " 

"  A  most  delightful  ballad,  truly,"  said  the 
Baron.       "  But,    like   many   others    of    our   little 


MILL-WHEELS  AND   OTHER    WHEELS     115 

songs,  it  requires  a  poet  to  feel  and  iinclerstand 
it.  Sing  them  in  the  valley  and  woodland  shad- 
ows, and  under  the  leafy  roofs  of  garden  walks, 
and  at  night,  and  alone,  as  they  were  written.  Sing 
them  not  in  the  loud  world,  —  for  the  loud  world 
laughs  such  things  to  scorn.  It  is  Miiller  who 
says,  in  that  little  song  where  the  maiden  bids  the 
moon  good  evening  :  — 

"  This  song  was  made  to  be  sung  at  night, 
And  he  who  reads  it  in  broad  daylight 
Will  never  read  the  mystery  right ; 
And  yet  it  is  childlike  easy  ! 

He  has  written  a  great  many  pretty  songs,  in 
which  the  momentary,  indefinite  longings  and  im- 
pulses of  the  soul  of  man  find  an  expression. 
He  calls  them  the  Songs  of  a  Wandering  Horn- 
player,  There  is  one  among  them  much  to  our 
present  purpose.  He  expresses  in  it  the  feeling 
of  unrest  and  desire  of  motion,  which  the  sight 
and  sound  of  running  waters  often  produce  in  us. 
It  is  entitled  '  Whither  ? '  and  is  worth  repeating 
to  you. 

"  I  heard  a  brooklet  gushing 

From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 
So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

"  I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 
Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 
But  I  must  hasten  downward, 
All  with  my  pilgrim-stave. 

*'  Downward,  and  ever  farther, 
And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured, 
And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 


116  HYPERION 

*'  Is  this  the  way  I  was  going  ? 
Whither,  O  brooklet  ?    say  ! 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  nuinuur, 
Murmured  my  senses  away. 

"  Wliat  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  ? 
That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 
'T  is  the  water-nymphs  tliat  are  singing 
Their  roundelays  under  me. 

**  Let  them  sing-,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur 
And  wander  merrily  near ; 
The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 
In  every  brooklet  clear." 

"  There  you  have  the  poetic  reverie,"  said  Flem- 
miug",  "  and  the  dull  prose  commentary  and  expla- 
nation in  matter  of  fact.  The  song  is  pretty,  and 
was  probably  suggested  by  some  such  scene  as  this 
which  we  are  now  beholding.  Doubtless,  all  your 
old  national  traditions  sprang  up  in  the  popular 
mind  as  this  song  in  the  poet's." 

"  Your  opinion  is  certainly  correct,"  answered 
the  Baron  ;  "  and  yet  all  this  play  of  poetic  fancy 
does  not  prevent  me  from  feeling  the  chill  night- 
air  and  the  pangs  of  hunger.  Let  us  go  back  to 
the  mill,  and  see  what  our  landlady  has  for  sup- 
per. Did  you  observe  what  a  loud,  sharp  voice 
she  has  ?  " 

"  People  always  have  who  live  in  mills  and  near 
waterfalls." 

On  the  following  morning,  they  emerged  unwil- 
lingly from  the  green,  dark  valley,  and  journeyed 
along  the  level  highway  to  Frankfort,  where  in 
the  evening  they  heard  the  glorious  Don  Giovanni 
of  Mozart.  Of  all  operas,  this  was  Flemming's 
favorite.     What  rapturous  flights  of  sound  I  what 


MILL-WHEELS  AND  OTHER    WHEELS     117 

thrilling,  pathetic  chimes !  what  wild,  joyous  rev- 
elry of  passion  !  what  a  delirium  of  sense  !  what 
an  expression  of  agony  and  woe  !  —  all  the  feel- 
ings of  suffering  and  rejoicing  humanity  sympa- 
thized with  and  finding  a  voice  in  those  tones. 
riemming  and  the  Baron  listened  with  ever  in 
creasing  delight. 

"  How  wonderful  this  is !  "  exclaimed  Flemming, 
transported  by  his  feelings.  "  How  the  chorus 
swells  and  dies,  like  the  wind  of  summer !  How 
those  passages  of  mysterious  import  seem  to  wave 
to  and  fro,  like  the  swaying  branches  of  trees  ; 
from  which  anon  some  solitary  sweet  voice  darts 
off  like  a  bird,  and  floats  away  and  revels  in  the 
bright,  warm  sunshine  !  and  then  mark  !  how,  amid 
the  chorus  of  a  hundred  voices  and  a  hundred  in- 
struments, of  flutes  and  drums  and  trumpets,  this 
universal  shout  and  whirlwind  of  the  vexed  air, 
you  can  so  clearly  distinguish  the  melancholy  vi- 
bration of  a  single  string,  touched  by  the  finger,  — 
a  mournful,  sobbing  sound !  Ah,  this  is  indeed 
human  life !  where,  in  the  rushing,  noisy  crowd, 
and  amid  sounds  of  gladness,  and  a  thousand  min- 
gling emotions,  distinctly  audible  to  the  ear  of 
thought,  are  the  pulsations  of  some  melancholy 
string  of  the  heart,  touched  by  an  invisible  hand." 

Then  came,  in  the  midst  of  these  excited  feel- 
ings, the  ballet,  drawing  its  magic  net  about  the 
soul.  And  soon,  from  the  tangled  yet  harmonious 
mazes  of  the  dance,  came  forth  a  sylph-like  form, 
her  scarf  floating  behind  her,  as  if  she  were  fan- 
ning'the  air  with  gauze-like  wings.  Noiseless  as  a 
feather  or  a  snow-flake  falls,  did  her  feet  touch  the 


118  HYPERION 

earth.  She  seemed  to  float  in  the  air,  and  the 
floor  to  bend  and  wave  under  her,  as  a  branch  when 
a  bird  alights  upon  it  and  takes  wing  again.  Loud 
and  rapturous  ai)plause  followed  each  wonderful 
stej),  each  volu})tuous  movement  ;  and,  with  a 
jflushed  cheek  and  burning  eye,  and  bosom  pant- 
ing to  be  free,  stood  the  gracefully  majestic  figure 
for  a  moment  still,  and  then  the  winged  feet  of  the 
swift  dancing-girls  glanced  round  her,  and  she  was 
lost  again  in  the  throng. 

"How  truly  exquisite  this  is!"  exclaimed  the 
Baron,  after  joining  loudly  in  the  applause. 

"  What  a  noble  figure  !  AVhat  grace  !  what  at- 
titudes I  How  much  sold  in  every  motion  !  how 
much  expression  in  every  gesture  !  I  assure  you, 
it  pi'oduces  upon  me  the  same  effect  as  a  beautiful 
poem.  It  is  a  poem.  Every  step  is  a  word ;  and 
the  whole  together  a  poem  !  " 

The  Baron  and  Flemming  were  delighted  with 
the  scene ;  and  at  the  same  time  exceedingly 
amused  with  the  countenance  of  an  old  prude  in 
the  next  box,  who  seemed  to  look  upon  the  whole 
magic  show  with  such  feelings  as  ISlichal,  Saul's 
daughter,  experienced,  when  she  looked  from  her 
window  and  saw  King  David  dancing  and  leaping 
with  his  scanty  garments. 

"  After  all,"  said  Flemming,  "  the  old  French 
priest  was  not  so  far  out  of  the  way,  when  he  said, 
in  his  coarse  dialect,  '  The  dance  is  the  Devil's 
procession,  and  paint  and  ornaments,  the  whetting 
of  the  Devil's  sword  ;  and  the  ring  that  is  made  in 
dancing,  the  De^nl's  grindstone,  whereon  he  sharp- 
ens his  sword  ;  antl  finally,  —  a  ballet  is  the  pomji 


MILL-WHEELS  AND   OTHER    WHEELS     119 

and  mass  of  the  Devil,  and  whosoever  entereth 
therein  entereth  into  his  pomp  and  mass  ;  for  the 
woman  who  singeth  is  the  prioress  of  the  Devil,  and 
they  that  answer  are  clerks,  and  they  that  look  on 
are  parishioners,  and  the  cymbals  and  flutes  are 
the  bells,  and  the  musicians  that  play  are  the  min- 
isters of  the  Devil.'  " 

"  No  doubt,  this  good  lady  near  us  thinks  so 
likewise,"  answered  the  Baron,  laughing;  "but 
she  likes  it  for  all  that." 

When  the  play  was  over,  the  Baron  begged 
Flemming  to  sit  still  till  the  crowd  had  gone. 

"  I  have  a  strange  fancy,"  said  he,  "  whenever  I 
come  to  the  theatre,  to  see  the  end  of  all  things. 
When  the  crowd  is  gone,  and  the  curtain  raised 
again  to  air  the  house,  and  the  lamps  are  all  out, 
save  here  and  there  one  behind  the  scenes,  the 
contrast  with  what  has  gone  before  is  most  ilupres- 
sive.  Everything  wears  a  dream-like  aspect.  The 
empty  boxes  and  stalls,  the  silence,  the  smok}'  twi- 
light, and  the  magic  scene  dismantled,  produce  in 
me  a  strange,  mysterious  feeling.  It  is  like  a  dim 
reflection  of  a  theatre  in  water  or  in  a  dusty  mir- 
ror, and  reminds  me  of  some  of  Hoffmann's  wild 
tales.  It  is  a  practical  moral  lesson,  a  commen- 
tary on  the  play,  and  makes  the  show  complete." 

It  was  truly  as  he  said,  only  tenfold  more  deso- 
late, solemn,  and  impressive ;  and  produced  upon 
the  mind  the  effect  we  experience  when  slumber  is 
suddenly  broken,  and  dreams  and  realities  mingle, 
and  we  know  not  yet  whether  we  sleep  or  wake. 
As  they  at  length  passed  out  through  the  dimly 
lighted  passage,  they  heard  a  vulgar-looking  fel* 


120  HYPERION 

low,  with  a  sensual  face  and  shaggy  whiskers,  say 
to  some  persons  who  were  standing  near  him,  and 
seemed  to  be  hangers-on  of  the  play-liouse  :  — 

"  I  shall  run  her  six  nights  at  Munich,  and  then 
take  her  on  to  Vienna." 

Flemming  thovight  he  was  speaking  of  some  fa 
vorite  horse.  He  was  speaking  of  his  beautiful 
wife,  the  ballet-dancer. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

GOETHE. 

What  most  interested  our  travellers  in  the  an- 
cient city  of  Frankfort  was  neither  the  opera,  nor 
the  Ariadne  of  Dannecker,  but  the  house  in  which 
Goethe  was  born,  and  the  scenes  he  frequented  in 
his  childhood  and  remembered  in  his  old  age./ 
Such,  for  example,  are  the  walks  around  the  city, 
outside  the  moat ;  the  bridge  over  the  Main,  with 
the  golden  cock  on  the  cross,  which  the  poet  beheld 
and  marvelled  at  when  a  boy  ;  the  cloister  of  the 
Barefooted  Friars,  through  which  he  stole  with 
mysterious  awe  to  sit  by  the  oilcloth-covered  table 
of  old  Rector  Albrecht ;  and  the  garden  in  which 
his  grandfather  walked  up  and  down  among  fruit- 
trees  and  rose-bushes,  in  long  morning-gown,  black 
velvet  cap,  and  the  antique  leather  gloves,  which 
he  annually  received  as  iVIayor  on  Pipers-Dooms= 
day  representing  a  kind  of  middle  personage  be- 
tween Alcinous  and  Laertes.  Thus,  O  Genius  \ 
are  thy  footi)rints  hallowed,  and  the  star  shines 
torever  over  the  place  of  thy  nativity. 


GOETHE 


121 


"  Your  English  critics  may  rail  as  they  list," 
Baid  the  Baron,  while  he  and  Flemming  were  re- 
turning from  a  stroll  in  the  leafy  gardens  out- 
side the  moat ;  "  but,  after  all,  Goethe  was  a  mag- 
nificent old  fellow.  Only  think  of  his  life;  his 
youth  of  passion,  alternately  aspiring  and  despond- 
ing, stormy,  impetuous,  headlong  ;  —  his  romantic 
manhood,  in  which  passion  assumes  the  form  of 
strength  ;  assiduous,  careful,  toiling,  without  haste, 
without  rest ;  —  and  his  sublime  old  age,  —  the 
age  of  serene  and  classic  repose,  where  he  stands 
like  Atlas,  as  Claudian  has  painted  him  in  the 
Battle  of  the  Giants,  holding  the  world  aloft  upon 
his  head,  the  ocean-streams  hard  frozen  in  his 
hoary  locks." 

"  A  o-ood  illustration  of  what  the  world  calls  his 
indiffei-entism." 

«  And  do  you  know  I  rather  like  this  indifPerent- 
ism  ?  Did  you  never  have  the  misfortune  to  live 
in  a  community,  where  a  difficulty  in  the  parish 
seemed  to  announce  the  end  of  the  world  ?  or  to 
know  one  of  the  benefactors  of  the  human  race,  in 
the  very  storm  and  pressure  period  of  his  indis- 
creet enthusiasm?  If  you  have,  I  think  you  will 
see  something  beautiful  in  the  calm  and  dignified 
attitude  which  the  old  philosopher  assumes." 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  his  admirers  had  not  a  little 
of  this  philosophic  coolness.  It  amuses  me  to 
read  the  various  epithets  which  they  apply  to 
him  :  —  The  Dear,  dear  Man  !  The  Life-enjoying 
Man  !  The  All-sided  One  !  The  Kepresentative 
of  Poetry  upon  Earth  !  The  Many-sided  Master- 
Miud  of  Germany!     His  enemies  rush  into  the 


122  HYPERION 

other  extreme,  and  Imrl  at  him  the  fierce  names  of 
Old  Humbug !  aud  Old  Heathen !  which  hit  like 
pistol-bullets." 

"  I  confess  he  was  no  saint." 

"  No  ;  his  philosophy  is  the  old  ethnic  philoso- 
phy. You  will  find  it  all  in  a  convenient  and 
concentrated  portable  form  in  Horace's  beautiful 
Ode  to  Thaliarcus.  What  I  most  object  to  in  the 
old  gentleman  is  his  sensuality." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  Nothing  can  be  purer  than  the 
Iphigenia ;  it  is  as  cold  and  passionless  as  a  marble 
statue." 

"  Very  true,  but  you  cannot  say  the  same  of 
some  of  the  Roman  Elegies,  and  of  that  strange 
book,  the  Elective  Affinities." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  Goethe  is  an  artist,  and  looks 
upon  all  things  as  objects  of  art  merely.  Why 
should  he  not  be  allowed  to  copy  in  words  what 
painters  and  sculptors  copy  in  colors  and  in 
marble  ?  " 

"  The  artist  shows  his  character  in  the  choice  of 
his  subject.  Goethe  never  sculptured  an  Apollo, 
nor  painted  a  Madonna.  He  gives  us  only  sinful 
Magdalens  and  rampant  Fauns.  He  does  not  so 
much  idealize  as  realize."  . 

"  He  only  copies  nature." 

"  So  did  the  artists  who  made  the  bronze  lamps 
of  Pompeii.  Would  you  hang  one  of  those  in  your 
hall  ?  To  say  that  a  man  is  an  artist  and  copies 
nature  is  not  enough.  There  are  two  great  schools 
of  art,  —  the  imitative  and  the  imaginative.  The 
latter  is  the  most  noble,  and  the  most  enduring ; 
and  Goethe  belonged  rather  to  the  former.  Have 
you  read  Menzel's  attack  upon  him  ?  " 


GOETHE  123 

"  It  is  truly  ferocious.  The  Silesian  hews  into 
him  lustily.  I  hope  you  do  not  take  sides  with 
him." 

"  By  no  means.  lie  goes  too  far.  He  blames 
the  poet  for  not  being  a  politician.  He  might  as 
well  blame  him  for  not  being  a  missionary  to  the 
Sandwich  Islands." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  Eckermann  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  is  a  kind  of  German  Boswell. 
Goethe  knew  he  was  drawing  his  portrait,  and  sat 
for  it  accordingly.  He  works  very  hard  to  make 
a  Saint  Peter  out  of  an  old  Jupiter,  as  the  Catho- 
lics did  at  Rome." 

"  Well,  call  him  Old  Humbug,  or  Old  Heathen, 
or  what  you  please  ;  I  maintain  that,  with  all  his 
errors  and  shortcomings,  he  was  a  glorious  speci- 
men of  a  man." 

"  He  certainly  was.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
that  he  was  in  some  points  like  Ben  Franklin,  — 
a  kind  of  rhymed  Ben  Franklin  ?  The  practical 
tendency  of  his  mind  was  the  same ;  his  love  of 
science  was  the  same ;  his  benignant,  philosophic 
spirit  was  the  same ;  and  a  vast  number  of  his 
little  poetic  maxims  and  soothsayings  seem  nothing 
more  than  the  worldly  wisdom  of  Poor  Richard, 
versified." 

"  What  most  offends  me  is,  that  now  every  Ger- 
man jackass  must  have  a  kick  at  the  dead  lion." 

"  And  every  one  who  passes  through  Weimar 
must  throw  a  book  upon  his  grave,  as  travellers 
did  of  old  a  stone  upon  the  grave  of  Manfi^edi,  at 
Benevento.  But,  of  aU  that  has  been  said  or  sung, 
what  most  pleases  me  is  Heine's  Apologetic,  if  1 


124  HYPERION 

may  so  call  it ;  in  -svhicli  he  says,  that  '  the  minor 
poets,  who  flourished  under  the  imperial  reign  of 
Goethe,  resemble  a  young  forest,  where  the  trees 
first  show  their  own  magnitude  after  the  oak  of  a 
hundred  years,  whose  branches  had  towered  above 
and  overshadowed  them,  has  fallen.  There  was 
not  wanting  an  opposition  that  strove  against 
Goethe,  this  majestic  tree.  Men  of  the  most  war- 
ring opinions  united  themselves  for  the  contest. 
The  adherents  of  the  old  faith,  the  orthodox,  were 
vexed  that  in  the  trunk  of  the  vast  tree  no  niche 
with  its  holy  image  was  to  be  found ;  nay,  that 
even  the  naked  Dryads  of  paganism  were  per- 
mitted to  play  their  witchery  there ;  and  gladly, 
with  consecrated  axe,  w^ould  they  have  imitated 
the  holy  Boniface,  and  levelled  the  enchanted  oak 
to  the  ground.  The  followers  of  the  new  faith, 
the  apostles  of  Liberalism,  were  vexed,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  the  tree  could  not  serve  as  a 
Liberty  Tree,  or,  at  any  rate,  as  a  barricade.  In 
fact  the  tree  was  too  high  ;  no  one  could  plant  the 
red  cap  upon  its  summit,  or  dance  the  Carmagnole 
beneath  its  branches.  The  multitude,  however, 
venerated  this  tree  for  the  very  reason  that  it 
reared  itself  with  such  independent  grandeur,  and 
so  graciously  filled  the  world  with  its  odor,  while 
its  branches  streaming  magnificently  toward  heaven 
made  it  appear  as  if  the  stars  were  only  the  golden 
fruit  of  its  wondrous  limbs.'  Do  you  not  think 
that  beautiful?  " 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful.  And  I  am  glad  to  see 
that  you  can  find  something  to  admire  in  my  fa- 
vorite author,  notwithstanding  his  frailties ;  or,  to 


GOETHE  125 

use  an  old  German  saying,  that  you  can  drive  the 
hens  out  of  the  garden  without  trampling  down 
the  beds." 

"  Here  is  the  old  gentleman  himself  I  "  exclaimed 
Flemming. 

"  Where  ?  "  cried  the  Baron,  as  if  for  the  mo- 
ment he  expected  to  see  the  living  figure  of  the 
poet  walking  before  them. 

"  Here  at  the  window,  —  that  full-length  cast. 
Excellent,  is  it  not  ?  He  is  dressed,  as  usual,  in 
his  long  yellow  nankeen  surtout,  with  a  white  cra- 
vat crossed  in  front.  What  a  magnificent  head ! 
and  what  a  posture !  He  stands  like  a  tower  of 
Strength.  And,  by  Heavens !  he  was  nearly  eighty 
years  old  when  that  was  made." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  You  can  see  by  the  date  on  the  pedestal." 

"  You  are  right.  And  yet  how  erect  he  stands, 
wdth  his  square  shoulders  braced  back,  and  his 
hands  behind  him !  He  looks  as  if  he  were  stand- 
ing before  the  fire.  I  feel  tempted  to  put  a  live 
coal  into  his  hand,  it  lies  so  invitingly  half-open. 
Gleim's  description  of  him,  soon  after  he  went  to 
Weimar,  is  very  different  from  this.  Do  you 
recollect  it  ?  " 

"No,  I  do  not." 

"  It  is  a  story  which  good  old  father  Gleim  used 
to  tell  with  great  delight.  He  was  one  evening 
reading  the  Gottingen  Musen-Almanach  in  a  select 
society  at  Weimar,  when  a  young  man  came  in, 
dressed  in  a  short,  gi-een  shooting-jacket,  booted 
and  spurred,  and  having  a  pair  of  brilliant,  black, 
Italian  eyes.     He,  in  turn,  offered  to  read;   but 


126  HYPERION 

finding,  probably,  the  poetry  of  the  Musen-Ahna- 
nach  of  that  year  rather  too  insipid  for  him.  he 
soon  began  to  improvise  the  wihlest  and  most  fan- 
tastic poems  imaginable,  and  in  all  possible  forms 
and  measures,  j^retending  all  the  while  to  read 
from  the  book.  '  That  is  either  Goethe  or  the 
Devil,'  said  good  old  father  Gleim  to  Wieland, 
who  sat  near  him.  To  which  the  Great  I  of 
Osmannstadt  replied,  '  It  is  both,  for  he  has  the 
Devil  in  him  to-night ;  and  at  such  times  he  is  like 
a  wanton  colt,  that  flings  out  before  and  behind, 
and  you  will  do  well  not  to  go  too  near  him ! '  " 

"  Very  good  !  " 

"  And  now  that  noble  figure  is  but  mould.  Only 
a  few  months  ago,  those  majestic  eyes  looked  for 
the  last  time  on  the  light  of  a  pleasant  spring 
morning.  Calm,  like  a  god,  the  old  man  sat ;  and 
with  a  smile  seemed  to  bid  farewell  to  the  light  of 
day,  on  which  he  had  gazed  for  more  than  eighty 
years.  Books  were  near  him,  and  the  pen  which 
had  just  dropped,  as  it  were,  from  his  dying 
fingers.  —  Open  the  shutters,  and  let  in  more 
light!  were  the  last  words  that  came  from  those 
lips.  Slowly  stretching  forth  his  hand,  he  seemed 
to  write  in  the  air ;  and,  as  it  sank  down  again 
and  was  motionless,  the  spirit  of  the  old  man  de- 
parted." 

"  And  yet  the  world  goes  on.  It  is  strange 
how  soon,  when  a  great  man  dies,  his  place  is 
filled ;  and  so  completely  that  he  seems  no  longer 
wanted.  But  let  us  stej)  in  here.  I  wish  to  buy 
that  cast." 


THE  DAYLIGHT  OF  THE  DWARFS     127 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   DAYLIGHT  OF   THE   DWARFS,  AND  THE   FALL- 
ING  STAR. 

After  lingering  a  day  or  two  in  Frankfort,  the 
two  friends  struck  across  through  Hochheim  to  the 
Rhine,  and  up  among  the  hills  of  the  Eheingau  to 
Schlangenbad,  where  they  tarried  only  to  bathe  and 
to  dine,  and  then  pursued  their  way  to  Langen- 
schwalbach.  The  town  lies  in  a  valley,  with  gently 
sloping  hills  around  it,  and  long  avenues  of  poplars 
leading  forth  into  the  fields.  One  interminable 
street  cuts  the  town  in  twain,  and  there  are  old 
houses  with  curious  faces  carved  upon  their  fronts, 
and  dates  of  the  olden  time. 

Our  travellers  soon  sallied  forth  from  their 
hotel,  impatient  to  drink  the  strength-giving  waters 
of  the  fountains.  They  continued  their  walk  far 
up  the  valley  under  the  poplars.  The  new  grain 
was  waving  in  the  fields  ;  the  birds  singing  in  the 
trees  and  in  the  air  ;  and  everything  seemed  glad, 
save  a  poor  old  man,  who  came  tottering  out  of 
the  woods,  with  a  heavy  bundle  of  sticks  on  his 
shoulders. 

Returning  upon  their  steps,  they  passed  down 
the  valley  and  through  the  long  street  to  the 
tumble-down  old  Lutheran  church.  A  flight  of 
stone  steps  leads  from  the  street  to  the  green  ter- 
race or  platform  on  which  the  church  stands,  and 
which  in  ancient  times  was  the  church-yard,  or, 
as  the  Germans  more  devoutly  say,  God's-acre ; 
where   generations   are   scattered   like  seeds,  and 


128  uypERiON 

that  which  is  sown  in  corruption  shall  be  raised 
hereafter  in  iucorruptioii.  Ou  the  steps  stood  an 
old  man,  —  a  very  old  man,  —  holding  a  little  girl 
by  the  hand.  He  took  off  his  greasy  cap  as  they 
passed,  and  wished  them  good  day.  His  teeth 
were  gone  ;  he  could  hardly  articulate  a  syllable. 
The  Baron  asked  him  how  old  the  church  was. 
He  gave  no  answer ;  but  when  the  question  was 
repeated,  came  close  up  to  them,  and,  taking  off 
his  cap  again,  turned  his  ear  attentively,  and 
said :  — 

"  I  am  hard  of  hearing." 

"  Poor  old  man,"  said  Flemming  ;  "  he  is  as 
much  a  ruin  as  the  church  we  are  entering.  It 
will  not  be  long  before  he,  too,  shall  be  sown  as 
seed  in  this  God's-acre  ! 

The  little  girl  ran  into  a  house  close  at  hand, 
and  brought  out  the  great  key.  The  church-door 
swung  open,  and,  descending  a  few  steps,  they 
passed  through  a  low-roofed  passage  into  the 
church.  All  was  in  ruin.  The  gravestones  in 
the  pavement  were  started  from  their  places ;  the 
vaults  beneath  yawned ;  the  roof  above  was  falling 
piecemeal ;  there  were  rents  in  the  old  tower ;  and 
mysterious  passages,  and  side  doors  with  crazy 
flights  of  wooden  steps,  leading  down  into  the 
churchyard.  Amid  all  this  ruin,  one  thing  only 
stood  erect ;  it  was  a  statue  of  a  knight  in  armor, 
standing  in  a  niche  under  the  pulpit. 

"  Who  is  this  ?  "  said  Flemming  to  the  old  sex- 
ton ;  "  who  is  this,  that  stands  here  so  solemnly  in 
marble,  and  seems  to  be  keeping  guard  over  the 
dead  men  below  ?  " 


THE  DAYLIGHT  OF   THE  DWARFS     129 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  old  man  ;  "but  I 
have  heard  my  grandfather  say  it  was  the  statue 
of  a  great  warrior  !  " 

"  There  is  history  for  you !  "  exclaimed  the 
Baron.  "  There  is  fame !  To  have  a  statue  of 
marble,  and  yet  have  your  name  forgotten  by  the 
sexton  of  your  parish,  who  can  remember  only  that 
he  once  heard  his  grandfather  say  that  you  were 
a  great  warrior  !  " 

Flcmming  made  no  reply,  for  he  was  thinking  of 
the  days,  when,  from  that  old  pulpit,  some  bold  re- 
former thundered  down  the  first  tidings  of  a  new 
doctrine,  and  the  roof  echoed  with  the  grand  old 
hymn  of  Martin  Luther. 

When  he  communicated  his  thoughts  to  the 
Baron,  the  only  answer  he  received  was :  — 

"  After  all,  what  is  the  use  of  so  much  preach- 
ing ?  Do  you  think  the  fishes,  that  heard  the 
sermon  of  St.  Anthony,  were  any  better  than  those 
who  did  not  ?  I  commend  to  your  favorable  notice 
the  fish-sermon  of  this  saint,  as  recorded  by  Abra- 
ham a  Sancta  Clara.  You  will  find  it  in  your 
favorite  Wonder-Horn." 

Thus  passed  the  day  at  Langenschwalbach,  and 
the  evening  at  the  AlMe-Saal  was  quite  solitary, 
for  as  yet  no  company  had  arrived  to  fill  its  cham- 
bers, or  sit  under  the  trees  before  the  door.  The 
next  morning  even  Flemming  and  the  Baron  were 
gone,  for  the  German's  heart  was  beating  with 
strong  desire  to  embrace  his  sister,  and  the  heart 
of  his  friend  cared  little  whither  he  went,  sobeit 
he  were  not  too  much  alone. 

After  a  few  hours'  drive,  they  were  looking  down 


130  HYPERION 

from  the  summit  of  a  hill  directly  upon  the  house- 
tops of  Ems.  There  it  lay,  deep  sunk  in  the 
hollow  beneath  them,  as  if  some  inhabitant  of 
Sirius,  like  him  spoken  of  in  Voltaire's  tale  of 
JSIicromegas,  held  it  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 
High  and  peaked  rise  the  hills  that  throw  their 
shadows  into  this  romantic  valley,  and  at  their 
base  winds  the  river  Lahn.  Our  travellers  drove 
through  the  one  long  street  composed  entirely  of 
hotels  and  lodging-houses.  Sick  people  looked  out 
of  the  windows  as  they  passed.  Others  were  walk- 
ing leisurely  up  and  down,  beneath  the  few  decap- 
itated trees,  which  represent  a  public  promenade, 
and  a  boy,  with  a  blue  frock  and  crimson  cap,  was 
driving  three  donkeys  down  the  street.  In  short, 
they  were  in  a  fashionable  watering-place  ;  as  yet 
sprinkled  only  by  a  few  pattering  drops  of  the 
summer  rain  of  strangers,  which  generally  follows 
the  first  hot  days. 

On  alighting  at  the  London  Hotel,  the  Baion 
found  —  not  his  sister,  but  only  a  letter  from  her, 
saying  she  had  changed  her  mind  and  gone  to  the 
Baths  of  Franconia.  This  was  a  disappointment, 
which  the  Baron  pocketed  with  the  letter,  and  said 
not  a  word  more  about  either.  It  was  his  way,  — 
his  philosophy  in  small  things  and  great.  In  the 
evening,  they  went  to  an  £esthetic  tea,  at  the  house 
of  the  Frau  Kranich,  the  wife  of  a  rich  banker  of 
Frankfort. 

"  I  must  tell  you  about  this  Frau  Kranich,"  said 
the  Baron  to  Flemming,  on  the  way.  "  She  is  a 
woman  of  talent  and  beauty,  and  just  in  the  prime 
of  life,  but,  unfortunately,  very  ambitious.      Her 


THE  DAYLIGHT  OF  THE  DWARFS     131 

mania  is  to  make  a  figure  in  the  fashionable  world  ; 
and  to  this  end  she  married  a  rich  banker  of  Frank- 
fort, old  enough  to  be  her  father,  not  to  say  her 
grandfather,  hoping,  doubtless,  that  he  would  soon 
die ;  for,  if  ever  a  woman  wished  to  be  a  widow, 
she  is  that  woman.  But  the  old  fellow  is  tough 
and  won't  die.  Moreover,  he  is  deaf,  and  crabbed, 
and  iienurious,  and  half  the  time  bedridden.  The 
wife  is  a  model  of  virtue,  notwithstanding  her 
weakness.  She  nurses  the  old  gentleman  as  if  he 
were  a  child.  And,  to  crown  all,  he  hates  society, 
and  will  not  hear  of  his  wife's  receiving  or  going 
into  company." 

"  How,  then,  can  she  give  aesthetic  teas  ?  "  asked 
Flemming. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  tell  you,"  continued  the 
Baron.  "  The  gay  lady  has  no  taste  for  long  even- 
ings with  the  old  gentleman  in  the  back  chamber, 
—  for  being  thus  chained  like  a  criminal  under 
Mezentius,  face  to  face  with  a  dead  body.  So  she 
puts  him  to  bed  first,  and  "  — 

"  Gives  him  opium." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  ;  and  then  gives  herself  a  tea- 
party,  without  his  knowing  anything  about  it. 
This  course  of  deception  is  truly  hateful  in  itself, 
and  must  be  particularly  so  to  her,  for  she  is  not  a 
low  or  an  immoral  woman,  but  one  of  those  who, 
not  having  strength  enough  to  complete  the  sacri- 
fice they  have  had  strength  enough  to  commence, 
are  betrayed  into  a  life  of  duplicity  and  false- 
hood." 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  and  were 
ushered  into  a  room  gayly  lighted  and  filled  with 


132  IIYPKRION 

ffucsts.  The  hostess  came  forward  to  receive 
them,  dressctl  in  white,  and  sailing  down  the  room 
like  a  swan.  When  the  customary  salutations  had 
passed  and  Flemming  had  been  duly  presented, 
tiie  Baron  said,  not  without  a  certain  degree  of 
malice  :  — 

"  And,  my  dear  Frau  Kranich,  how  is  your  good 
husband  to-night  ?  " 

This  question  was  about  as  discreet  as  a  cannon- 
ball.  But  the  lady  replied,  in  the  simplicity  of  her 
heart,  and  not  in  the  least  disconcerted  :  — 

"  The  same  as  ever,  my  dear  Baron.  It  is 
astonishing  how  he  holds  out.  But  let  us  not  talk 
of  tliese  things  now.  I  must  introduce  your  friend 
to  his  countryman,  the  Grand  Duke  of  Mississippi ; 
alike  remarkable  for  his  wealth,  his  modesty,  and 
the  extreme  simplicity  of  his  manners.  He  drives 
only  six  horses.  Besides,  he  is  known  as  a  man  of 
learning  and  piety,  —  has  his  private  chapel,  and 
private  clergyman,  who  always  preaches  against 
the  vanity  of  worldly  riches.  He  has  also  a  pri- 
vate secretary,  whose  sole  duty  is  to  smoke  to  him, 
that  he  may  enjoy  the  aroma  of  Spanish  cigars, 
without  the  trouble  of  smoking." 

"  Decidedly  a  man  of  genius  !  " 

Here  Flemming  was  introduced  to  his  illustrious 
countryman  —  a  person  who  seemed  to  consist 
chiefly  of  linen,  such  a  display  did  he  make  of  col- 
lar, bosom,  and  wristbands. 

"Pray,  Mr.  Flemming,  what  do  you  think  of 
that  Rembrandt  ?  "  said  he,  pointing  to  a  picture 
on  the  wall.  "  Exquisite  picture  I  The  gi-andeur 
of   sentiment  and  splendor  of  chiaroscuro  are  of 


THE  DAYLIGHT  OF   THE  DWARFS     133 

the  first  order.  Just  observe  the  liquidity  of  the 
water,  and  the  silveriness  of  the  clouds !  Great 
power !  There  is  a  bravura  of  handling  in  that 
picture,  Sir,  which  it  requires  the  eye  of  a  con- 
noisseur to  appreciate." 

"  Yes,  a  most  undoubted  —  copy !  " 

And  here  their  conversation  ended  ;  for  at  that 
moment  the  little  Moldavian  Prince  Jerkin  made 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  with  his  snuff-box  as 
usual  in  his  hand,  and  hun-ied  up  to  Flemming, 
whom  he  had  known  in  Ileidelbers:.  He  was 
eager  to  let  every  one  know  that  he  spoke  Eng- 
lish, and  in  his  haste  began  by  making  a  mis- 
take. 

"  Good-by !  Good-by !  Mr.  Flemming !  "  said  he, 
instead  of  "  good  evening."  "  I  am  ravished  to 
see  you  in  Ems.  Nice  place  ;  —  all  that  there  is 
of  most  nice.  I  drink  my  water  and  am  good ! 
Do  you  not  think  the  Frau  Kranich  has  a  very 
beautiful  leather  ?  " 

He  meant  skin.  Flemming  laughed  outright ; 
but  it  was  not  perceived  by  the  Prince,  because  at 
that  moment  he  was  pushed  aside,  in  the  rush  of 
a  gallopade,  and  Flemming  beheld  his  face  no 
more.  At  the  same  moment  the  Baron  introduced 
a  friend  of  his,  who  also  spoke  English,  and  said : 

"  You  will  sup  with  me  to-night.  I  have  some 
Rhine-wine,  which  will  be  a  seduction  to  you." 

Soon  after,  the  Baron  stood,  with  an  impassioned, 
romantic  lady  leaning  on  his  arm,  examining  a  copy 
of  Raphael's  Fornarina. 

"  Ach !  1  wish  I  had  been  the  Fornarina," 
sighed  the  impassioned,  romantic  lady. 


134  HYPERION 

"  Then,  my  dear  madam,"  replied  the  Baron,  "  I 
wish  1  had  been  liaphael." 

And  so  likewise  said  to  himself  a  very  tall  man 
witli  fiery  red  hair  and  fancy  whiskers,  who  was 
waltzing  round  and  round  in  one  spot,  and  in  a 
most  extraordinary  waistcoat ;  thus  representing  a 
fiery  floating-light,  to  warn  men  of  the  hidden 
rocks  on  which  the  breath  of  vanity  drives  them 
shipwreck.  At  length  his  partner,  tired  of  spin- 
ning, sank  upon  a  sofa,  like  a  child's  top,  when  it 
reels  and  falls. 

"  You  do  not  like  the  waltz  ?  "  said  an  elderly 
French  gentleman,  remarking  the  expression  of 
riemming's  countenance. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  among  the  figurantes  of  the  opera. 
But  I  confess  it  sometimes  makes  me  shudder  to 
see  a  young  rake  clasp  his  arms  round  the  waist  of 
a  pure  and  innocent  girl.  What  would  j'ou  say, 
were  you  to  see  him  sitting  on  a  sofa  with  his  arms 
round  your  wife  ?  " 

"  Mere  prejudice  of  education,"  replied  the 
French  gentleman.  "  I  know  that  situation.  I 
have  read  all  about  it  in  the  Bibllotheque  de  Ro- 
mans Choisis  I " 

And  meri'ily  went  the  dance  ;  and  bright  eyes 

and  flushed  cheeks  were  not  wanting  among  the 

dancers ; 

And  they  waxed  red,  and  waxed  warm, 
And  rested,  panting,  arm  in  arm ; 

and  the  Strauss-waltzes  sounded  pleasantly  in  the 
ears  of  Flemming,  who,  though  he  never  danced, 
yet,  like  Henry  of  Ofterdingen,  in  the  romance  of 
Novalis,  thought  to  music.      The  wheeling  waltx 


THE  DAYLIGHT  OF   THE  DWARFS     135 

set  the  wheels  of  his  faney  going.  And  thus  tlie 
moments  glided  on,  and  the  footsteps  of  Time  were 
not  heard  amid  the  sound  of  music  and  voices. 

But  suddenly  this  scene  of  gayety  was  inter- 
rupted. The  door  opened  wide  ;  and  the  short 
figure  of  a  gray-haired  old  man  presented  itself, 
with  a  flushed  countenance  and  wild  eyes.  He  was 
but  half  dressed,  and  in  his  hand  held  a  silver  can- 
dlestick without  a  light.  A  sheet  was  wound  round 
his  head,  like  a  tux'bau  ;  and  he  tottered  forward 
with  a  vacant,  bewildered  look,  exclaiming  :  — 

"  I  am  Mahomet,  the  king  of  the  Jews  !  " 

At  the  same  moment  he  fell  in  a  swoon,  and  was 
borne  out  of  the  room  by  the  servants.  Flemming 
looked  at  the  lady  of  the  festival,  and  she  was 
deadly  pale.  For  a  moment,  all  was  confusion  ; 
and  the  dance  and  the  music  stopped.  The  im- 
pression produced  on  the  company  was  at  once 
ludicrous  and  awful.  They  tried  in  vain  to  rally. 
The  whole  society  was  like  a  dead  body,  from 
which  the  spirit  has  departed.  Erelong,  the  guests 
had  all  dispersed,  and  left  the  lady  of  the  mansion 
to  her  mournful,  expiring  lamps,  and  still  more 
mournful  reflections. 

"  Truly,"  said  Flemming  to  the  Baron,  as  they 
wended  their  way  homeward,  "  this  seems  not  like 
reality  ;  but  like  one  of  the  sharp  contrasts  we  find 
in  novels.  Who  shall  say,  after  this,  that  there  is 
not  more  romance  in  real  life  than  we  find  written 
in  books  ?  " 

"  Not  more  romance,"  said  the  Baron,  "  but  a 
different  romance." 

A  still  more  tragic  scene  had  been  that  evening 


136  HYPERION 

enacted  in  Heidelberg.  Just  as  the  sun  set,  two 
fVmale  figures  walked  along-  the  romantic  wood- 
land pathway  leading  to  the  Angel's  Meadow,  a 
little  green  opening  on  the  brow  of  one  of  the  high 
hills  which  see  themselves  in  the  Neekar  and  hear 
the  solemn  bells  of  Kloster-Neuburg.  The  even- 
ing shadows  were  falling  broad  and  long,  and  the 
cuckoo  began  to  sing. 

"  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  "  said  the  eldest  of  the 
two  figures,  repeating  an  old  German  popular 
rhyme,  — 

"  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  ! 
Tell  me  true, 
Tell  me  fair  and  fine, 
How  long  must  I  unmarried  pine  ?  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  an  evil  spirit  that  spoke  in 
the  person  of  Madeleine  ;  and  the  pale  and  shrink- 
ing figure  that  walked  by  her  side,  and  listened  to 
those  words,  was  Emma  of  Ilmenau.  A  young 
man  joined  them,  where  the  path  turns  into  the 
thick  woodlands ;  and  they  disappeared  among 
the  shadowy  branches.     It  was  the  Polish  Count. 

The  forget-me-nots  looked  up  to  heaven  with 
their  meek  blue  eyes,  from  their  home  in  Angel's 
Meadow.  Calmly  stood  the  mountain  of  All-Saints, 
in  its  majestic,  holy  stillness  ;  the  river  flowed  so 
far  below  that  the  murmur  of  its  waters  was  not 
heard  ;  there  was  not  a  sigh  of  the  evening  wind 
among  the  leaves,  not  a  sound  upon  the  earth  nor 
in  the  air  ;  —  and  yet  that  night  there  fell  a  star 
from  heaven ! 


THE  PARTING  137 

CHAPTER   X. 
THE    PARTING. 

It  was  now  that  season  of  the  year  which  an  old 
English  writer  calls  the  amiable  month  of  June, 
and  at  that  hour  of  the  day,  when,  face  to  face, 
the  rising-  moon  beholds  the  setting  sun.  As  yet 
the  stars  were  few  in  heaven.  But,  after  the  heat 
of  the  day,  the  coolness  and  the  twilight  descended 
like  a  benediction  upon  the  earth,  by  all  those  gen- 
tle sounds  attended  which  are  the  meek  compan- 
ions of  the  night. 

Flemming  and  the  Baron  had  passed  the  after- 
noon at  the  Castle.  They  had  rambled  once  more 
together,  and  for  the  last  time,  over  the  magnificent 
ruin.  On  the  morrow  they  were  to  part,  perhaps 
for  ever.  The  Baron  was  going  to  Berlin,  to  join 
his  sister ;  and  Flemming,  driven  forward  by  the 
restless  spirit  within  him,  longed  once  more  for  a 
change  of  scene,  and  was  to  start  for  the  Tyrol  and 
Switzerland.  Alas  !  he  never  said  to  the  passing 
hour,  "  Stay,  for  thou  art  fair  !  "  but  reached  for- 
ward into  the  dark  future,  with  unsatisfied  long- 
ings and  aimless  desires  that  were  never  still. 

As  the  day  was  closing,  they  sat  down  on  the 
terrace  of  Elizabeth's  Garden.  The  sun  had  set 
beyond  the  blue  Alsatian  hills  ;  and  on  the  valley 
of  the  Rhine  fell  the  purple  mist,  like  the  mantle 
of  the  departing  prophet  from  his  fiery  chariot. 
Over  the  castle  walls  and  the  trees  of  the  garden 
rose  the  large  moon,  and  between  the  contending 
daylight  and  moonlight  there  were  as  yet  no  shad- 


138  HYPERION 

ows.  But  at  length  tlie  shadows  came,  —  trans- 
parent and  faint  outlines,  that  deepened  into  form. 
In  the  valley  below  only  the  river  gleamed,  lilce 
steel,  and  here  and  there  the  lamps  were  lighted 
in  the  town.  Solemnly  stood  the  leafy  linden- 
trees  in  the  garden  near  them,  their  trunks  in  dark- 
ness and  their  summits  bi'onzed  with  moonlight  ; 
and  in  his  niche  in  the  great  round  tower,  overhung 
with  ivy,  like  a  majestic  phantom,  stood  the  gray 
statue  of  Louis,  with  his  venerable  beard,  and  shirt 
of  mail,  and  flowing  mantle  ;  and  the  mild  majes- 
tic countenance  looked  forth  into  the  silent  night, 
as  the  countenance  of  a  seer  who  reads  the  stars. 
At  intervals,  the  Avind  of  the  summer  night  passed 
through  the  ruined  castle  and  the  trees,  and  they 
sent  forth  a  sound  as  if  Nature  were  sighing  in  her 
dreams  ;  and  for  a  moment,  overhead,  the  broad 
leaves  gently  clashed  together,  like  brazen  cymbals, 
with  a  tinkling  sound  ;  and  then  all  was  still,  save 
the  sweet,  passionate  song  of  nightingales,  that 
nowhere  sing  more  sweetly  than  in  the  gardens  of 
Heidelberg  Castle. 

The  hour,  the  scene,  and  the  near-approaching 
separation  of  the  two  young  friends  had  filled 
their  hearts  with  a  pleasant,  though  at  the  same 
time  not  painless  excitement.  They  had  been  con- 
versing about  the  magnificent  old  ruin,  and  the 
ages  in  which  it  had  been  built,  and  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  time  and  war,  that  had  battered  down  its 
walls,  and  left  it  "  tenantless,  save  to  the  cranny- 
ing  wind." 

"  How  sorrowful  and  sublime  is  the  face  of  that 
statue   yonder !  "    said   Flemmiug.     "  It   reminds 


THE  PARTING  139 

me  of  the  old  Danisli  hero  Beowiilf ;  for  careful, 
sorrowing-,  he  seeth  in  his  son's  bower  the  wine- 
"hall  deserted,  the  resort  of  the  wind,  noiseless  ; 
the  knight  sleepeth ;  the  warrior  lieth  in  darkness ; 
there  is  no  noise  of  the  harp,  no  joy  in  the  dwell- 
ings, as  there  was  before." 

"  Even  as  you  say,"  replied  the  Baron  ;  "  but  it 
often  astonishes  me  that,  coming  from  that  fresh 
green  world  of  yours  beyond 'the  sea,  you  should 
feel  so  much  interest  in  these  old  things  ;  nay,  at 
times,  seem  so  to  have  drunk  in  their  spirit,  as 
really  to  live  in  the  times  of  old.  For  my  part,  I 
do  not  see  what  charm  there  is  in  the  pale  and 
wrinkled  countenance  of  the  Past,  so  to  entice  the 
soul  of  a  young  man.  It  seems  to  me  like  falling 
in  love  with  one's  grandmother.  Give  me  the 
Present,  —  warm,  glowing,  palpitating  with  life. 
She  is  my  mistress ;  and  the  Future  stands  wait- 
ing like  my  wife  that  is  to  be,  —  for  whom,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  care  very  little  just  now.  Indeed,  my 
friend,  I  wish  you  would  take  more  heed  of  this 
philosophy  of  mine,  and  not  waste  the  golden 
hours  of  youth  in  vain  regi-ets  for  the  past,  and  in- 
definite, dim  longings  for  the  future.  Youth  comes 
but  once  in  a  lifetime." 

"  Therefore,"  said-  Flemming,  "  let  us  so  enjoy 
it  as  to  be  still  young  when  we  are  old.  For  my 
part,  I  grow  happier  as  I  grow  older.  When  I 
compare  my  sensations  and  enjoj^ments  now  with 
w'hat  they  were  ten  years  ago,  the  comparison  is 
vastly  in  favor  of  the  present.  Much  of  the  fever 
and  f^'etfuluess  of  life  is  over.  The  world  and  I 
look  each  other  more  calmly  in  the  face.    My  mind 


140  HYPERION 

is  more  self-possessed.  It  has  done  me  good  to  be 
somewhat  parched  by  the  heat  and  drenched  by 
the  rain  of  life." 

"  Now  you  speak  like  an  old  philosopher,"  an- 
swered the  Baron,  laughing.  "  But  you  deceive 
yourself.  I  never  knew  a  more  restless,  feverish 
spirit  than  yours.  Do  not  think  you  have  gained 
the  mastery  yet.  You  are  only  riding  at  anchor 
here  in  an  eddy  of  the  stream ;  you  will  soon  be 
swept  away  again  in  the  mighty  current  and  whirl 
of  accident.  Do  not  trust  this  momentary  cahn. 
1  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself.  There 
is  something  Faust-like  in  you ;  you  would  fain 
grasp  the  highest  and  the  deepest,  and  reel  from 
desire  to  enjoyment,  and  in  enjoyment  languish 
for  desire.  When  a  momentary  change  of  feeling 
comes  over  you,  you  think  the  change  permanent, 
and  thus  live  in  constant  self-deception." 

"  I  confess,"  said  Flemming,  "  there  may  be 
some  truth  in  what  you  say.  There  are  times  when 
my  soul  is  restless,  and  a  voice  sounds  within  me, 
like  the  trump  of  the  archangel,  and  thoughts  that 
were  buried,  long  ago,  come  out  of  their  graves. 
At  such  times  my  favorite  occupations  and  pur- 
suits no  longer  charm  me.  The  quiet  face  of  Na- 
ture seems  to  mock  me." 

"  There  certainly  are  seasons,"  replied  the  Baron, 
"  when  Nature  seems  not  to  sympathize  with  her 
beloved  children.  She  sits  there  so  eternally  calm 
and  self-possessed,  so  very  motherly  and  serene, 
and  cares  so  little  whether  the  heart  of  her  child 
breaks  or  not,  that  at  times  I  almost  lose  n^y  pa- 
tience.     About  that,  too,  she  cares  so  little  that, 


THE  PARTING  141 

out  of  sheer  obstinacy,  I  become  good-humored 
again,  and  then  she  smiles." 

"  I  think  we  must  confess,  however,"  continued 
Flemming,  "  that  all  this  springs  from  our  own 
imperfection,  not  from  hers.  How  beautiful  is 
this  green  world  which  we  inhabit !  See  yonder, 
how  the  moonlight  mingles  with  the  mist !  What 
a  glorious  night  is  this  !  Truly,  every  man  has  a 
Paradise  around  him,  until  he  sins,  and  the  angel 
of  an  accusing  conscience  drives  him  from  his 
Etlen.  And  even  then  there  are  holy  hours,  when 
this  angel  sleeps,  and  man  comes  back,  and,  with 
the  innocent  eyes  of  a  child,  looks  into  his  lost 
Paradise  again,  —  into  the  broad  gates  and  rural 
solitudes  of  Nature.  I  feel  this  often.  We  have 
much  to  enjoy  in  the  quiet  and  retirement  of  our 
own  thoughts.  Boisterous  mirth  and  loud  laughter 
are  not  my  mood.  I  love  that  tranquillity  of  soul, 
in  which  we  feel  the  blessing  of  existence,  and 
which  in  itself  is  a  prayer  and  a  thanksgiving. 
I  find,  however,  that,  as  I  grow  older,  I  love  the 
country  less,  and  the  town  more." 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  the  Baron  ;  "  and  presently 
you  will  love  the  town  less  and  the  country  more. 
Say  at  once  that  you  have  an  undefined  longing 
for  both,  and  prefer  town  or  country,  according 
to  the  mood  you  are  in.  I  think  a  man  must  be 
of  a  very  quiet  and  happy  nature  who  can  long 
endure  the  country ;  and,  moreover,  very  well  con- 
tented with  his  own  insignificant  person,  very  self- 
Bomplacent,  to  be  continually  occupied  with  himself 
and  his  own  thoughts.  To  say  the  least,  a  town 
Ufe  makes  one  more  tolerant  and  liberal  in  one's 


142  HYPERION 

judgment  of  others.  One  Is  not  eternally  wrapped 
up  in  self-contemplation ;  which,  after  all,  is  only 
a  more  holy  kind  of  vanity," 

In  conversation  like  this,  the  hours  glided  away ; 
till  at  length,  from  the  Giant's  Tower,  the  castle 
clock  struck  twelve,  with  a  sound  that  seemed  to 
come  from  the  Middle  Ages.  Like  watchmen 
from  their  belfries,  the  city  clocks  answered  it, 
one  by  one.  Then  distant  and  muffled  sounds 
were  heard.  Inarticulate  words  seemed  to  blot 
the  foggy  air,  as  if  written  on  wet  paper.  These 
were  the  bells  of  Plandschuhsheimer,  and  of  other 
villages  on  the  broad  plain  of  the  Rhine  and 
among  the  hills  of  the  Odenwald ;  mysterious 
sounds,  that  seemed  not  of  this  world. 

Beneath  them,  in  the  shadow  of  the  hills,  lay 
the  valley,  —  fathomless,  black,  impenetrable. 
Above  were  the  cloistered  stars,  that,  nun-like, 
walk  the  holy  aisles  of  heaven.  The  city  was 
asleep  in  the  valley  below  ;  all  asleep  and  silent, 
save  the  clocks,  that  had  just  struck  twelve,  and 
the  veering,  golden  weathercocks,  that  were  swim- 
ming in  the  moonlight,  like  golden  fishes  in  a  glass 
vase.  And  again  the  wind  of  the  summer  night 
passed  through  the  old  castle  and  the  trees,  and 
the  nightingales  recorded  under  the  dark,  shadowy 
leaves,  and  the  heart  of  Flemming  was  full. 

AVhen  he  had  retired  to  his  chamber,  a  feeling 
of  utter  loneliness  came  over  him.  The  night 
before  one  begins  a  journey  is  always  a  dismal 
night;  for,  as  Byron  says, 

In  leaving  even  t}ie  most  unpleasant  people 
Aud  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple  I 


THE  PARTING  143 

and  how  much  more  so  when  the  place  and  peo- 
ple are  pleasant !  as  was  the  case  with  those  that 
Flemming  was  now  leaving.  No  wonder  he  was 
sad  and  sleepless.  Thoughts  came  and  went,  and 
bright  and  gloomy  fancies,  and  dreams  and  vis- 
ions, and  sweet  faces  looked  under  his  closed  eye- 
lids, and  vanished  away,  and  came  again,  and 
again  departed.  He  heard  the  clock  strike  from 
hour  to  hour,  and  said,  "  Another  hour  is  gone." 
At  length  the  birds  began  to  sing,  and  ever  and 
anon  the  cock  crew.  He  arose,  and  looked  forth 
into  the  gray  dawn ;  and  before  him  lay  the  city 
he  was  so  soon  to  leave,  all  white  and  ghastly,  like 
a  city  that  had  arisen  from  its  grave. 

"  All  things  must  change,"  said  he  to  the  Baron, 
as  he  embraced  him,  and  held  him  by  the  hand. 
"  Friends  must  be  torn  asunder,  and  swept  along 
in  the  current  of  events,  to  see  each  other  seldom, 
and  perchance  no  more.  For  ever  and  ever  in  the 
eddies  of  time  and  accident  we  whirl  away.  Be- 
sides which,  some  of  us  have  a  perpetual  motion 
in  our  wooden  heads,  as  Wodenblock  had  in  his 
wooden  leg ;  and  like  him  we  travel  on,  without 
rest  or  sleep,  and  have  hardly  time  to  take  a 
friend  by  the  hand  in  passing  ;  and  at  length  are 
seen  hurrying  through  some  distant  land,  worn  to 
a  skeleton,  and  all  unknown." 


BOOK  THE   THIRD 

Take  away  the  lights,  too ; 

The  moon  lends  me  too  much  to  find  my  fears, 

And  those  devotions  I  am  now  to  pay 

Are  wTitten  in  my  lieart,  not  in  thy  book ; 

And  I  sliall  read  them  there  without  a  taper. 

Beaduont  and  Flstcheb< 


CHAPTER  I. 
SIBIMER-TIME. 


They  were  right  —  those  old  German  Min- 
nesingers —  to  sing  the  pleasant  summer-time ! 
What  a  time  it  is !  How  June  stands  illuminated 
in  the  calendar  !  The  windows  are  all  wide  open  ; 
only  the  Venetian  blinds  closed.  Here  and  there 
a  lonsr  streak  of  sunshine  streams  in  through  a 
crevice.  AYe  hear  the  low  sound  of  the  wind 
among  the  trees ;  and,  as  it  swells  and  freshens, 
the  distant  doors  clap  to,  with  a  sudden  sound. 
The  trees  are  heavy  \nth  leaves,  aiKl  the  gardens 
full  of  blossoms,  red  and  white.  The  whole  at- 
mosphere is  laden  with  perfume  and  sunshine. 
The  birds  sing.  The  cock  struts  about,  and  crowa 
loftily.  Insects  chirp  in  the  grass.  Yellow  but- 
tercups  stud  the  green  carpet  like  golden  buttons, 
and  the  red  blossoms  of  the  clover  like  rubies. 
The  elm-trees  reach  their  long,  pendulous  branches 
almost  to  the  ground.     White  clouds  sail  aloft, 


SUMMER-TIME  145 

and  vapors  fret  the  blue  sky  with  silver  threads. 
The  white  village  gleams  afar  against  the  dark 
hills.  Through  the  meadow  winds  the  river, — 
careless,  indolent.  It  seems  to  love  the  country, 
and  is  in  no  haste  to  reach  the  sea.  The  bee  only 
is  at  work,  —  the  hot  and  angry  bee.  All  things 
else  are  at  play  ;  he  never  plays,  and  is  vexed  that 
any  one  should. 

People  drive  out  from  town  to  breathe,  and  to 
be  happy.  Most  of  them  have  flowers  in  their 
hands  ;  bunches  of  apple-blossoms,  and  still  of  tener 
lilacs.  Ye  denizens  of  the  crowded  city,  how 
pleasant  to  you  is  the  change  from  the  sultry 
streets  to  the  open  field,  fragrant  with  clover-blos- 
soms !  how  pleasant  the  fresh,  breezy  country  air, 
dashed  with  brine  from  the  meadows !  how  pleas- 
ant, above  all,  the  flowers,  —  the  manifold,  beauti- 
ful flowers ! 

It  is  no  longer  day.  Through  the  trees  rises 
the  red  moon,  and  the  stars  are  scarcely  seen.  In 
the  vast  shadow  of  night,  the  coolness  and  the 
dews  descend.  I  sit  at  the  open  window  to  enjoy 
them ;  and  hear  only  the  voice  of  the  summer 
wind.  Like  black  hulks,  the  shadows  of  the  great 
trees  ride  at  anchor  on  the  billowy  sea  of  grass.  I 
cannot  see  the  red  and  blue  flowers,  but  I  know 
that  they  are  there.  Far  away  in  the  meadow 
gleams  the  silver  Charles.  The  tramp  of  horses' 
hoofs  sounds  from  the  wooden  bridge.  Then  all  is 
still,  save  the  continuous  wind  of  the  summer 
night.  Sometimes  I  know  not  if  it  be  the  wind, 
or  the  sound  of  the  neighboring  sea.  The  village 
clock  strikes  :  and  I  feel  that  I  am  not  alone. 


146  HYPERION 

How  different  is  it  in  tlie  city !  It  is  late,  and 
the  crowd  is  gone.  You  step  out  upon  the  bal- 
cony, and  lie  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  cool,  dewy 
Night,  as  i£  you  folded  her  garments  about  you. 
Beneath  lies  the  public  walk  with  trees,  like  a 
fathomless,  black  gulf,  into  whose  silent  darkness 
the  spirit  plunges  and  floats  away,  with  some  be- 
loved spirit  clasped  in  its  embrace.  The  lamps 
are  still  burning  up  and  down  the  long  street. 
People  go  by,  with  grotesque  shadows,  now  fore- 
shortened, and  now  lengthening  away  into  the 
darkness  and  vanishing,  while  a  new  one  springs 
up  behind  the  walker,  and  seems  to  pass  him, 
revolving  like  the  sail  of  a  windmill.  The  iron 
gates  of  the  park  shut  with  a  jangling  clang. 
There  are  footsteps  and  loud  voices; — a  tumidt, 
—  a  drunken  brawl,  —  an  alarm  of  fire  ;  —  then  si- 
lence again.  And  now  at  length  the  city  is  asleep, 
and  we  can  see  the  night.  The  belated  moon 
looks  over  the  roofs,  and  finds  no  one  to  welcome 
her.  The  moonlight  is  broken.  It  lies  here  and 
there  in  the  squares,  and  the  openings  of  streets,  — 
angular,  like  blocks  of  white  marble. 


Under  such  a  green,  triumphal  arch,  O  Reader, 
with  the  odor  of  flowers  about  thee,  and  tlie  song 
of  birds,  shalt  thoii  pass  onward  into  the  enchanted 
land,  as  through  the  Ivory  Gate  of  dreams !  And 
as  a  prelude  and  majestic  march,  one  sweet  human 
voice,  coming  from  the  bosom  of  the  Alps,  sings 
this  sublime  ode,  which  the  Alpine  echoes  repeat 
afar. 


S  UMMER-  TIME  147 

Come,  golden  Evening  !  in  the  west 

Enthrone  the  storm-dispelling  sun, 
And  let  the  triple  rainbow  rest 

O'er  aU  the  mountain-tops.     'T  is  done ;  — ■ 
The  tempest  ceases  ;   bold  and  bright, 

The  rainbow  shoots  from  hill  to  hUl ; 
Down  sinks  the  sun  ;   on  presses  night;  — 

Mont  Blanc  is  lovely  still ! 

There  take  thy  stand,  my  spirit ;  —  spread 

The  world  of  shadows  at  thy  feet ; 
And  mark  how  calmly,  overhead, 

The  stars,  like  saints  in  glory,  meet. 
Wliile  hid  in  solitude  sublime, 

Methinks  I  muse  on  Nature's  tomb, 
And  hear  the  passing  foot  of  Time 

Step  through  the  silent  gloom. 

All  in  a  moment,  crash  on  crash, 

From  precipice  to  precipice. 
An  avalanche's  ruins  dash 

Down  to  the  nethermost  abyss. 
Invisible ;  the  ear  alone 

Pursues  the  uproar  till  it  dies ; 
Echo  to  echo,  groan  for  groan, 

From  deep  to  deep,  replies. 

Silence  again  the  darkness  seals. 

Darkness  that  may  be  felt ;  —  but  soon 
The  silver-clouded  east  reveals 

The  midnight  spectre  of  the  moon  ; 
In  half -eclipse  she  lifts  her  horn. 

Yet  o'er  the  host  of  heaven  supreme 
Brings  the  faint  semblance  of  a  mom, 

With  her  awakening  beam. 

Ah  !  at  her  touch,  these  Alpine  heights 

Unreal  mockeries  appear ; 
With  blacker  shadows,  ghastlier  lights^ 

Emerging  as  she  climbs  the  sphere ; 
A  crowd  of  apparitions  pale  ! 

I  hold  my  breath  in  chUl  suspense, 
They  seem  so  exquisitely  frail, 

Lest  they  should  vanish  hence. 


148  HYPERION 

I  breathe  again,  I  freely  breathe ; 

Thee,  Lenian's  Lake,  once  more  I  tracey 
Like  Dian's  crescent  far  beneath, 

As  beautiful  as  Dian's  face  : 
Pride  of  the  land  that  g-ave  me  birth ! 

All  that  thy  waves  reflect  I  love, 
Where  heaven  itself,  brought  down  to  earth, 

Looks  fairer  than  above. 

Safe  on  thy  banks  again  I  stray; 

The  trance  of  poesy  is  o'er, 
And  I  am  here  at  dawn  of  day, 

Gazing  on  mountaiiLs  as  before, 
Wliere  all  the  strange  mutations  wronght 

Were  magic  feats  of  my  own  mind  ; 
For,  in  that  fairy  land  of  thought, 

Whate'er  I  seek,  I  find.* 


CHAPTER  II. 

FOOT-TRAVELLING. 

Tell  me,  my  soul,  why  art  thou  restless  ?  Why 
dost  thou  look  forward  to  tlie  future  with  such, 
strong  desire  ?  The  present  is  thine,  —  and  the 
past ;  —  and  the  future  shall  be  !  Oh  that  thou 
didst  look  forward  to  the  great  hereafter  with 
half  the  longing  wherewith  thou  longest  for  an 
earthly  future,  —  which  a  few  days,  at  most,  will 
bring  thee  !  to  the  meeting  of  the  dead,  as  to  the 
meeting  of  the  absent  !  Thou  glorious  spirit- 
land  !  Oh  that  I  could  behold  thee  as  thou  art, 
—  the  region  of  life  and  light  and  love,  and  the 
dwelling-place  of  those  beloved  ones  whose  being 
has  flowed  onward,  like  a  silver-clear  stream  into 

*  James  Montgomery. 


FOOT-  TRA  YELLING  149 

the  solemn-sounding  main,  into  the  ocean  of  Eter- 
nity ! 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through  the 
soul  of  Flemming,  as  he  lay  in  utter  solitude  and 
silence  on  the  rounded  svmimit  of  one  of  the  moun- 
tains of  the  Furca  Pass,  and  gazed,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  and  ardent  longing  in  his  heart,  into  the 
blue,  swimming  heaven  overhead,  and  at  the  gla- 
ciers and  snowy  mountain-peaks  around  him.  High- 
est and  whitest  of  all  stood  the  peak  of  the  Jung- 
frau,  which  seemed  near  him,  though  it  rose  afar 
off  from  the  bosom  of  the  Lauterbrunner  Thai. 
There  it  stood,  holy  and  high  and  pure,  the  bride 
of  heaven,  veiled  and  clothed  in  white,  and  lifting 
the  thoughts  of  the  beholder  heavenward.  Oh,  he 
little  thought  then,  as  he  gazed  at  it  with  longing 
and  delight,  how  soon  a  form  was  to  arise  in  his 
own  soul,  as  holy  and  high  and  pure  as  this,  and 
like  this  point  heavenward  ! 

Thus  lay  the  traveller  on  the  mountain  summit, 
reposing  his  weary  limbs  on  the  short,  brown  grass, 
which  more  resembled  moss  than  grass.  He  had 
sent  his  guide  forward,  that  he  might  be  alone. 
His  soul  within  him  was  wild  with  a  fierce  and 
painful  delight.  The  mountain  air  excited  him  ; 
the  mountain  solitudes  enticed  yet  maddened  him. 
Every  peak,  every  sharp,  jagged  iceberg,  seemed 
to  pierce  him.  The  silence  was  awful  and  sublime. 
It  was  like  that  in  the  soul  of  a  dying  man,  when 
he  hears  no  more  the  sounds  of  earth.  He  seemed 
to  be  laying  aside  his  earthly  garments.  The 
heavens  were  near  unto  him  ;  but  between  him  and 
heaven  every  evil  deed  he  had  done  arose  gigantic, 


150  HYPERION 

like  those  mountain-peaks,  and  breathed  an  icy 
breath  upon  hijn.  Oh,  let  not  the  soul  that  suffers 
dare  to  look  Nature  in  the  face,  where  she  sits  ma- 
jestically aloft  in  the  solitude  of  the  mountains ! 
for  her  face  is  hard  and  stern,  and  turns  not  in 
compassion  upon  her  weak  and  erring  child.  It 
is  the  countenance  of  an  accusing  archangel,  who 
summons  us  to  judgment.  In  the  valley  she 
wears  the  countenance  of  a  Virgin  Mother,  look- 
ing at  us  with  tearful  eyes,  and  a  face  of  jiity  and 
love  ! 

But  yesterday  Flemming  had  come  up  the  val- 
ley of  the  Saint  Gothard  Pass,  through  Amsteg, 
where  the  Kerstelenbach  comes  dashing  down  the 
Maderaner  Thai,  from  its  snowy  cradle  overhead. 
The  road  is  steep,  and  runs  on  zigzag  terraces. 
The  sides  of  the  mountains  are  barren  cliffs  ;  and 
from  their  cloud-capt  summits,  unheard  amid  the 
roar  of  the  great  torrent  below,  come  streams  of 
snow-white  foam,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  like 
the  mountain  chamois.  As  you  advance,  the  scene 
grows  wilder  and  more  desolate.  There  is  not  a 
tree  in  sight,  —  not  a  human  habitation.  Clouds, 
black  as  midnight,  lower  upon  you  from  the  ra- 
vines above  ;  and  the  mountain  torrent  beneath  is 
but  a  sheet  of  foam,  and  sends  up  an  incessant  roar. 
A  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brings  you  in  sight  of 
a  lofty  bridge,  stepping  from  cliff  to  cliff  with  a 
single  stride.  A  mighty  cataract  howls  beneath  it, 
like  an  evil  spirit,  and  fills  the  air  with  mist ;  and 
the  mountain  wind  claps  its  hands  and  shrieks 
through  the  narrow  pass.  Ha !  ha  !  This  is  the 
Devil's  Bridge.     It  leads  the  traveller  across  the 


FOOT-TRA  VEILING  151 

fearful  chasm,  and  through  a  mountain  gallery 
into  the  broad,  green,  silent  meadow  of  Ander- 
math. 

Even  the  sunny  morning  which  followed  this 
gloomy  day  had  not  chased  the  desolate  impres- 
sion from  the  soul  of  Flemming.  His  excite- 
ment increased  as  he  lost  himself  more  and  more 
among  the  mountains  ;  and  now,  as  he  lay  alone 
on  the  summit  of  the  sunny  hiU,  with  only  gla- 
ciers and  snowy  peaks  about  him,  his  soul,  as  I 
have  said,  was  wild  with  a  fierce  and  painful  de- 
light. 

A  human  voice  broke  his  reverie.  He  looked, 
and  beheld,  at  a  short  distance  from  him,  the  ath- 
letic form  of  a  mountain  herdsman,  who  was  ap- 
proaching the  spot  where  he  lay.  He  was  a  young 
man,  clothed  in  a  rustic  garb,  and  holding  a  long 
staff  in  his  hand.  When  Flemming  rose,  he  stood 
still,  and  gazed  at  him,  as  if  he  loved  the  face  of 
man,  even  of  a  stranger,  and  longed  to  hear  a  hu- 
man voice,  though  it  might  speak  in  an  unknown 
tongue.  He  answered  Flemming's  salutation  in  a 
rude  mountain  dialect,  and  in  reply  to  his  ques- 
tions said :  — 

"  I,  with  two  others,  have  charge  of  two  hun- 
dred head  of  cattle  on  these  mountains.  Through 
the  two  summer  months,  we  remain  here  night 
and  day,  for  which  we  receive  each  a  napoleon." 

Flemming  gave  him  half  his  summer  wages. 
He  was  glad  to  do  a  good  deed  in  secret,  and  yet 
so  near  heaven.  The  man  received  it  as  his  due, 
like  a  toll-keeper,  and  soon  after  departed,  leaving 
the  traveller  alone.     And  the  traveller  went  his 


152  HYPERION 

way  down  the  mountain,  as  one  distraught.  He 
stopped  only  to  pluck  one  bright  blue  flower,  which 
bloomed  alone  in  the  vast  desert,  and  looked  up  at 
him,  as  if  to  say,  "  Oh,  take  me  with  you !  leave 
me  not  here  companionless  !  " 

Erelong  he  reached  the  magnificent  glacier  of 
the  Rhone  —  a  frozen  cataract,  more  than  two  thou- 
sand feet  in  height,  and  many  miles  broad  at  its 
base.  It  fills  the  whole  valley  between  two  moun- 
tains, running  back  to  their  summits.  At  the  base 
it  is  arched,  like  a  dome ;  and  above,  jagged  and 
rough,  and  resembles  a  mass  of  gigantic  crystals, 
of  a  pale  emerald  tint,  mingled  with  white.  A 
snowy  crust  covers  its  surface,  but  at  every  rent 
and  crevice  the  pale  green  ice  shines  clear  in  the 
sun.  Its  shape  is  that  of  a  glove,  lying  with  the 
palm  downwards,  and  the  fingers  crooked  and  close 
together.  It  is  a  gauntlet  of  ice,  which,  cen- 
turies ago.  Winter,  the  king  of  these  mountains, 
threw  down  in  defiance  to  the  Sun  ;  and  year  by 
year  the  Sun  strives  in  vain  to  lift  it  from  the 
ground  on  the  point  of  his  glittering  spear.  A 
feeling  of  wonder  and  delight  came  over  the  soul 
of  Flemming  when  he  beheld  it,  and  he  shouted 
and  cried  aloud :  — 

"  How  wonderful !  how  glorious  !  " 

After  lingering  a  few  hours  in  the  cold,  desolate 
valley,  he  climbed  in  the  afternoon  the  steep 
Mayen-Wand,  on  the  Grimsel ;  passed  the  Lake 
of  the  Dead,  with  its  ink-black  waters ;  and 
through  the  melting  snow,  and  over  slippery  step- 
ping-stones in  the  beds  of  numberless  shallow 
brooks,  descended  to  the  Grimsel  Hospital,  where 


FOOT-TRA  YELLING  153 

he  passed  the  night,  and  thought  it  the  most  lone 
and  desolate  spot  that  man  ever  slept  in. 

On  the  morrow  he  rose  witli  the  day  ;  and  the 
rising  sun  found  him  already  standing  on  the  rus- 
tic bridge  which  hangs  over  the  verge  of  the  Falls 
of  the  Aar  at  Handeck,  where  the  river  pitches 
down  a  precipice  into  a  narrow  and  fearful  abyss 
shut  in  by  perpendicular  cliffs.  At  right  angles 
with  it  comes  the  beautiful  Aerlenbach ;  and  half- 
way down,  the  double  cascade  mingles  into  one. 
Thus  he  pursued  his  way  down  the  Hasli  Thai  into 
the  Bernese  Oberland,  —  restless,  impatient,  he 
knew  not  why,  —  stopping  seldom,  and  never  long, 
—  and  then  rushing  forward  again,  like  the  rush- 
ing river  whose  steps  he  followed,  and  in  whose 
ice-cold  waters  ever  and  anon  he  bathed  his  wrists, 
to  cool  the  fever  in  his  blood ;  for  the  noonday  sun 
was  hot. 

His  heart  dilated  in  the  dilating  valley,  that 
grew  broader  and  greener  at  every  step.  The  sight 
of  human  faces  and  human  dwellings  soothed  him  ; 
and  through  the  fields  of  summer  grain,  in  the 
broad  meadows  of  Imgrund,  he  walked  with  a 
heart  that  ached  no  more,  but  trembled  only,  as 
our  eyelids  when  we  have  done  weeping.  As  he 
climbed  the  opposite  hill,  which  hems  in  this  ro- 
mantic valley,  and,  like  a  heavy  yoke,  chafes  the 
neck  of  the  Aar,  he  believed  the  ancient  tradition, 
whicli  says  that  once  the  valley  was  a  lake.  From 
the  summit  of  the  hill  he  looked  southward  upon  a 
beautiful  landscape  of  gardens,  and  fields  of  grain, 
and  woodlands,  and  meadows,  and  the  ancient 
castle  of   Kesti,  looking  down  upon  Meyringen. 


154  HYPERION 

And  now  all  around  him  were  the  singing  of  birds, 
and  grateful  sliadows  of  the  leafy  trees,  and  sheeted 
waterfalls  dropping  from  the  woodland  cliffs,  seen 
only,  but  unheard,  —  the  fluted  columns  breaking 
into  mist,  and  fretted  with  frequent  spires  and  or- 
naments of  foam,  and  not  unlike  the  towers  of  a 
Gothic  church  inverted.  There,  in  one  white  sheet 
of  foam,  the  Keichenbach  pours  down  into  its  deep 
beaker,  into  which  the  sun  never  shines.  Face  to 
face  it  beholds  the  Alpbach  falling  from  the  op- 
posite hill,  "  like  a  downward  smoke."  When 
Flemming  saw  the  innumerable  runnels,  sliding 
down  the  mountain-side,  and  leaping,  all  life  and 
gladness,  he  would  fain  have  clasped  them  in  his 
arms  and  been  their  playmate,  and  revelled  with 
them  in  their  freedom  and  delight.  Yet  he  was 
weary  with  the  day's  journey,  and  entered  the  vil- 
lage of  ISIeyringen,  embowered  in  cherry-trees, 
wdiich  were  then  laden  with  fruit,  more  like  a  w^ay- 
worn  traveller  than  an  enthusiastic  poet.  As  he 
went  up  the  tavern-steps,  he  said  in  his  heart,  with 
the  Italian  Aretino :  "  He  who  has  not  been  at  a 
tavern  knows  not  what  a  paradise  it  is.  O  holy 
tavern  !  O  miraculous  tavern  !  —  holy,  because 
no  carking  cares  are  there,  nor  weariness,  nor 
pain  ;  and  miraculous,  because  of  the  spits,  which 
of  themselves  turn  round  and  round  !  Of  a 
truth,  all  courtesy  and  good  manners  come  from 
taverns,  so  full  of  bows,  and  Signor,  si !  and  Sig- 
nor,  no  1  " 

But  even  in  the  tavern  he  could  not  rest  long. 
The  same  evening  at  sunset  he  was  floating  on  the 
lake  of  Brienz,  in  an  open  boat,  close  under  the 


INTERLACHEN  155 

cascade  of  the  Giessbach,  hearing  the  peasants 
sing  the  lianz  des  Vaches.  He  slept  that  night  at 
the  other  extremity  of  the  lake,  in  a  large  house, 
which,  like  Saint  Peter's  at  Jopi)a,  stood  by  the 
water's  side.  The  next  day  he  wasted  in  writing 
letters,  musing  in  this  green  nest,  and  paddling 
about  the  lake  again ;  and  in  the  evening  went 
across  the  beautiful  meadows  to  Interlachen,  where 
many  things  happened  to  him,  and  detained  him 
long. 

CHAPTER  III. 

INTERLACHEN. 

Interlachen  !  How  peacefully,  by  the  margin 
of  the  swift-rushing  Aar,  thou  liest  on  the  broad 
lap  of  those  romantic  meadows,  all  overshadowed 
by  the  wide  arms  of  giant  trees  !  Only  the  quaint 
towers  of  thine  ancient  cloister  rise  above  the,ir 
summits  ;  the  quaint  towers  themselves  but  a 
child's  playthings  under  the  great  church-towers  of 
the  mountains.  Close  beside  thee  are  lakes,  which 
the  flowing  band  of  the  river  ties  together.  Before 
thee  opens  the  magnificent  valley  of  Lauterbrun- 
nen,  where  the  cloud-hooded  Monk  and  the  pale 
Virgin  stand  like  Saint  Francis  and  his  Bride  of 
Snow  ;  and  around  thee  are  fields,  and  orchards, 
and  hamlets  green,  from  which  the  church-bells 
answer  each  other  at  evening.  The  evening  sun 
was  setting  when  I  first  beheld  thee.  The  sun  of 
life  will  set  ere  I  forget  thee  !  Surely  it  was  a 
scene  like  this  that  inspired  the  soul  of  the  Swiss 
poet,  in  his  Song  of  the  Bell ! 


156  HYPERION 

Bell !   thon  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  I 
Bell !  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 

Fields  deserted  lie ! 

Bell !  thou  soundest  merrily ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening', 

Bedtime  draweth  nigh ! 
"  Bell !  thou  soundest  miournfully, 

Tellest  thou  the  bitter 

Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

Say !  how  canst  thou  mourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Art  but  metal  dull  ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 

God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  ! 
Wlien  the  heart  is  sinking. 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it. 

Trembling  in  the  storm ! 

Paul  riemming  alighted  at  one  of  the  principal 
hotels.  The  landlord  came  out  to  meet  him.  He 
had  great  eyes  and  a  green  coat,  and  reminded 
Flemming  of  the  innkeeper  mentioned  in  the 
Golden  Ass,  who  had  been  changed  by  magic  into 
a  frog,  and  croaked  to  his  customers  from  the  lees 
of  a  wine-cask.  His  house,  he  said,  was  full,  and 
so  was  every  house  in  Interlachen  ;  but,  if  the  gen- 
tleman would  walk  in,  he  would  find  a  chamber 
for  him  in  the  neighborhood. 

On  the  sofa  sat  a  gentleman,  reading  ;  a  stout 
gentleman  of  perhaps  forty-five,  round,  ruddy,  and 


INTERLA  CHEN  157 

with  a  head  which,  being  a  little  bald  on  the  top, 
looked  not  unlike  a  crow's  nest  with  one  ejTjr  in  it. 
A  good-humored  face  turned  from  the  book  as 
Flemming  entered,  and  a  good-humored  voice  ex- 
claimed :  — 

"  Ha !  Mr.  Flemming  !  Is  it  yon,  or  your  ap- 
parition ?  I  told  you  we  should  meet  again  ! 
though  you  were  for  taking  an  eternal  farewell  of 
your  fellow-traveller." 

Saying  these  words  the  stout  gentleman  rose  and 
shook  Flemming  heartily  by  the  hand.  And  Flem- 
ming returned  the  shake  as  heartily,  recognizing 
in  this  ruddy  personage  a  former  travelling-com- 
panion, Mr.  Berkley,  whom  he  had  left,  a  week  or 
two  previous,  toiling  up  the  Righi.  Mr.  Berkley 
was  an  Englishman  of  fortune  ;  a  good-humored, 
humane  old  bachelor,  remarkable  alike  for  his 
common  sense  and  his  eccentricity.  That  is  to 
say,  the  basis  of  his  character  was  good,  sound 
common  sense,  trodden  down  and  smoothed  by  ed- 
ucation ;  but  this  level  groundwork  his  strange 
and  whimsical  fancy  used  as  a  dancing-floor 
whereon  to  exhibit  her  eccentric  tricks.  His  rul- 
ing passion  was  cold-bathing,  and  he  usually  ate 
his  breakfast  sitting  in  a  tub  of  cold  water,  and 
reading  a  newspaper.  He  kissed  every  child  he 
met ;  and  to  every  old  man  said,  in  passing,  "  God 
bless  you !  "  with  such  an  expression  of  voice  and 
countenance  that  no  one  could  doubt  his  sincerity. 
He  reminded  one  of  Roger  Bontemps,  or  the  Little 
Man  in  Gray,  though  with  a  difference. 

"  The  last  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you, 
Mr.  Berkley,"  said  Flemming,  "  was  at  Goldau, 


158  HYPERION 

just  as  you  were  goinj^  up  the  Riglii.  I  hope  you 
were  gratified  with  a  hue  suurise  ou  the  mountain- 
top." 

"  No,  I  was  not !  "  replied  ]Mr.  Berkk-y.  "  It  is 
all  a  humbug  !  a  confounded  humbug  !  They 
made  such  a  noise  about  their  sunrise,  that  I  de- 
termined I  would  not  see  it.  So  I  lay  snug  in 
bed,  and  only  peeped  through  the  window-curtain. 
That  was  enough.  Just  above  the  house,  on  the 
top  of  the  hill,  stood  some  fifty  half-dressed,  roman- 
tic individuals,  shivering  in  the  wet  grass  ;  and, 
a  short  distance  from  them,  a  miserable  wretch, 
blowing  a  long,  wooden  horn.  That 's  your  sunrise 
on  the  liighi,  is  it  ?  said  I ;  and  went  to  sleep 
again.  The  best  thing  I  saw  at  the  Culm  was  the 
advertisement  on  the  bed-room  doors,  saying  that, 
if  the  women  would  wear  the  quilts  and  blankets 
for  shawls  when  they  went  out  to  see  the  sunrise, 
they  must  pay  for  the  washing.  Take  my  word 
for  it,  the  Kighi  is  a  great  humbug  !  " 

"  Where  have  you  been  since  ?  " 

"  At  Ziirich  and  Schaffhausen.  If  you  go  to 
Zurich,  beware  how  you  stop  at  the  Raven.  They 
will  cheat  you.  They  cheated  me,  but  I  had  my 
revenge  ;  for,  when  we  reached  Schaffhausen,  I 
wrote  in  the  Traveller's  Book,  — 

*'  Beware  of  the  Raven  of  Ziiricli ! 
'T  is  a  bird  of  omen  ill  ; 
With  a  noisy  and  an  unclean  nest, 
And  a  very,  very  long  bill. 

If  you  go  to  the  Golden  Falken,  you  will  find  it 
there.     I  am  the  author  of  those  lines  !  " 
"  Bitter  as  Juvenal !  "  exclaimed  Flemming. 


INTERLACHEN  159 

"  Not  In  the  least  bitter,"  said  Mr.  Berkley. 
"  It  is  all  true.  Go  to  the  Raven  and  see.  But 
this  Interlaehen  !  this  Interlachen  !  It  is  the  love- 
liest spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth,"  he  continued, 
stretching  out  both  arms,  as  if  to  embrace  the 
object  of  his  affection.  "  There,  —  only  look  out 
there !  " 

Here  he  pointed  to  the  window.  Flemming 
looked,  and  beheld  a  scene  of  transcendent  beauty. 
The  plain  was  covered  already  by  the  brown  shade 
of  the  summer  twilight.  From  the  cottage  roofs 
in  Unterseen  rose  here  and  there  a  thin  column  of 
smoke  over  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  mingled  with 
the  evening  shadows.  The  valley  of  Lauterbrun- 
nen  was  filled  with  a  blue  haze.  Far  above,  in  the 
clear,  cloudless  heaven,  the  white  forehead  of  the 
Jungfrau  blushed  at  the  last  kiss  of  the  departing 
sun.  It  was  a  glorious  transfiguration  of  Nature  ! 
And  when  the  village  bells  began  to  ring,  and  a 
single  voice  at  a  great  distance  was  heard  yodling 
forth  a  ballad,  it  rather  broke  than  increased  the 
enchantment  of  a  scene,  where  silence  was  more 
musical  than  sound. 

For  a  long  time  they  gazed  at  the  gloaming  land- 
scape, and  spake  not.  At  length  people  came  in, 
and  laid  aside  their  shawls  and  hats,  and  exchanged 
a  word  or  two  with  Berkley.  To  Flemming  they 
were  all  unknown.  The  conversation  turned  upon 
the  various  excursions  of  the  day.  Some  had  been 
at  the  Siaubbach,  others  at  the  Grindelwald,  others 
at  the  lake  of  Thun  ;  and  nobody  before  had  ever 
experienced  half  the  rapture  which  they  had  expe- 
rienced that  day.     And  thus  they  sat  in  the '  twi- 


160  HYPERION 

light,  as  people  love  to  do,  at  the  close  of  a  summer 
day.  As  yet  the  lamps  had  not  been  lighted,  and 
one  could  not  distinguish  faces ;  but  voices  only, 
and  forms  like  shadows. 

Presently  a  female  figure,  clothed  in  black,  en- 
tered the  room  and  sat  down  by  the  window.  She 
rather  listened  to  the  conversation  than  joined  in 
it ;  but  the  few  words  she  said  were  spoken  in  a 
voice  so  musical  and  full  of  soid,  that  it  moved  the 
soul  of  Flennning,  like  a  whisper  from  heaven. 

Oh,  how  wonderful  is  the  human  voice  !  It  is  in- 
deed the  organ  of  the  soul !  The  intellect  of  man 
sits  enthroned  visibly  upon  his  forehead  and  in  his 
eye,  and  the  heart  of  man  is  written  upon  his 
countenance.  But  the  soul  reveals  itself  in  the 
voice  only ;  as  God  revealed  himself  to  the  prophet 
of  old  in  the  still,  small  voice,  and  in  the  voice 
from  the  burning  bush.  The  soul  of  man  is  audi- 
ble, not  visible.  A  sound  alone  betrays  the  flow- 
ing of  the  eternal  fountain,  invisible  to  man ! 

Flemming  would  fain  have  sat  and  listened  for 
hours  to  the  sound  of  that  unknown  voice.  He 
felt  sure,  in  his  secret  heart,  that  the  being  from 
whom  it  came  was  beautiful.  His  imagination 
filled  up  the  faint  outline  which  the  eye  beheld  in 
the  fading  twilight,  and  the  figure  stood  already  in 
his  mind  like  Raphael's  beautiful  Madonna,  in  the 
Dresden  gallery.  He  was  never  more  mistaken  in 
his  life.  The  voice  belonged  to  a  beautiful  being, 
it  is  true,  but  her  beauty  was  different  from  that 
of  any  Madonna  which  Raphael  ever  painted ;  as 
he  would  have  seen,  had  he  waited  till  the  lamps 
were  lighted.     ]5ut  in  the  midst  of  his  reverie  and 


INTERLA  CHEN  161 

saint-palnting,  the  landlord  came  in,  and  told  him 
he  had  found  a  room,  which  he  begged  him  to  go 
and  look  at. 

Flemming  took  his  leave  and  departed.  Berkley 
went  with  him,  to  see,  he  said,  what  kind  of  a  nest 
his  young  friend  was  to  sleep  in. 

"  The  room  is  not  what  I  coidd  wish,"  said  the 
landlord,  as  he  led  them  across  the  street.  "  It  is 
in  the  old  cloister.  But  to-morrow  or  next  day, 
you  can,  no  doubt,  have  a  room  at  the  house." 

The  name  of  the  cloister  struck  Flemming's 
imagination  pleasantly.  He  was  owl  enough  to 
like  ruins  and  old  chambers,  where  nuns  or  friars 
had  slept.     And  he  said  to  Berkley  :  — 

"  So,  you  perceive,  my  nest  is  to  be  in  a  cloister. 
It  already  makes  me  think  of  a  bird's  nest  I  once 
saw  on  an  old  tower  of  Heidelberg  Castle,  built  in 
the  jaws  of  a  lion,  which  formerly  served  as  a 
spout.  But  pray  tell  me,  who  was  that  young 
lady  with  the  soft  voice  ?  " 

"  What  young  lady  with  the  soft  voice  ?  " 

"  The  young  lady  in  black  who  sat  by  the  win- 
dow." 

"  Oh,  she  is  the  daughter  of  an  English  officer, 
who  died  not  long  ago  at  Naples.  She  is  passing 
the  summer  here  with  her  mother." 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"  Ashburton." 

"  Is  she  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Not  beautiful,  but  very  Intellectual,  A  woman 
of  genius,  I  should  say." 

And  now  they  had  reached  the  walls  of  the 
cloister,  and  passed  under  an  arched  gateway,  and 


162  HYPERION 

close  beneath  the  quaint  towers,  which  Flemming 
liad  already  seen,  rising  with  their  cone-shaped 
roofs  above  the  trees,  like  tall  tapers,  with  extin- 
guishers upon  them. 

"  It  is  not  so  bad  as  it  looks,"  said  the  landlord, 
knocking  at  a  small  door,  in  the  main  building. 
"■  The  bailiff  lives  in  one  part  of  it." 

A  servant  girl,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand, 
opened  the  door,  and  conducted  Flemming  and 
Berkley  to  the  chamber  which  had  been  engaged. 
It  was  a  large  room  on  the  lower  floor,  wainscoted 
with  pine,  and  unpainted.  Three  lofty  and  nar- 
row windows,  with  leaden  lattices  and  small  panes, 
h)oked  southward  towards  the  valley  of  Lauter- 
brunnen  and  the  mountains.  In  one  corner  was  a 
large  square  bed,  with  a  tester  and  checked  cur- 
tains. In  another,  a  huge  stove  of  painted  tiles, 
reaching  almost  to  the  ceiling.  An  old  sofa,  a 
few  high-backed,  anti(]ue  chairs,  and  a  table,  com- 
pleted the  furniture  of  the  room. 

Thus  Flemming  took  possession  of  his  monkish 
cell  and  dormitory.  He  ordered  tea,  and  began  to 
feel  at  home.  Berkley  passed  the  evening  with 
him.     On  going  away,  he  said  :  — 

"Good -night!  I  leave  yon  to  the  care  of  the 
Virgin  and  all  the  Saints.  If  the  ghost  of  any  old 
monk  comes  back  after  his  prayer-book,  my  com- 
pliments to  him.  If  I  were  a  younger  man,  you 
certainly  should  see  a  ghost.     Good-night !  " 

When  he  had  departed,  Flemming  opened  the 
lattice  of  one  of  the  windows.  The  moon  had 
risen,  and  silvered  the  dark  outline  of  the  nearest 
hills ;  while,  afar  off,  the  snowy  summits  of  the 


THE  EVENING  AND  MORNING  STAR     163 

Jungfrau  and  the  Silver-Horn  shone  like  a  white 
cloud  in  the  sky.  Close  beneath  the  windows  was 
a  flower-garden;  and  the  breath  of  the  summer 
night  came  to  him  with  dewy  fragrance.  There 
was  a  grateful  seclusion  about  the  place.  He 
blessed  the  happy  accident  which  gave  him  such  a 
lodging,  and  fell  asleep  that  night  thinking  of  the 
nuns  who  once  had  slept  in  the  same  quiet  cells  ; 
but  neither  wimpled  nun  nor  cowled  monk  ap- 
peared to  him  in  his  dreams  ;  —  not  even  the  face 
of  Mary  Ashburton,  nor  did  he  hear  her  voice. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  EVENING  AND  THE  MORNING  STAR. 

Old  Froissart  tells  us,  in  his  Chronicles,  that, 
when  King  Edward  beheld  the  Countess  of  Salis- 
bury at  her  castle-gate,  he  thought  he  had  never 
seen  before  so  noble  nor  so  fair  a  lady  ;  he  was 
stricken  thereupon  to  the  heart  with  a  sparkle  of 
fine  love,  that  endured  long  after ;  he  thought  no 
lady  in  the  world  so  worthy  to  be  beloved  as  she. 
And  so  likewise  thought  Paul  Flemming,  when  he 
beheld  the  English  lady  in  the  fair  light  of  a  sum- 
mer morning.  I  will  not  disguise  the  truth.  She 
is  my  heroine,  and  I  mean  to  describe  her  with 
great  truth  and  beauty,  so  that  all  shall  be  in  love 
with  her,  and  I  most  of  all. 

Mary  Ashburton  was  in  her  twentieth  summer. 
Like  the  fair  maiden  Amoret,  she  was  sitting  in 
the  lap  of  womanhood.  They  did  her  wrong  who 
said  she  was  not  beautiful ;  and  yet 


164  HYPERION 

She  was  not  fair, 
Nor  beautiful ;  —  those  words  express  her  not. 
But,  oh,  her  looks  had  something  excellent, 
That  wants  a  name ! 

Her  face  had  a  wonderful  fascination  in  it.  It 
was  such  a  cahn,  quiet  face,  with  the  light  of  the 
rising  soul  shining  so  peacefidly  through  it.  At 
times  it  wore  an  expression  of  seriousness,  —  o£ 
sorrow  even  ;  and  then  seemed  to  make  the  very 
air  bright  with  what  the  Italian  poets  so  beauti- 
fully call  the  laminggiar  delV  angelico  riso^  —  the 
lig-htning  of  the  angelic  smile. 

And,  oh,  those  eyes,  —  those  deep  unutterable 
eyes,  with  "  down-falling  eyelids  full  of  dreams  and 
slumber,"  and  within  them  a  cold,  living  light,  as 
in  mountain  lakes  at  evening,  or  in  the  river  of 
Paradise,  forever  gliding, 

With  a  brown,  brown  current, 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 

I  dislike  an  eye  that  twinkles  like  a  star.  Those 
only  are  beautiful  which,  like  the  planets,  have 
a  steady  light,  —  are  luminous,  but  not  sparkling. 
Such  eyes  the  Greek  poets  give  to  the  Immor- 
tals. 

The  lady's  figure  was  striking.  Every  step, 
every  attitude,  was  graceful,  and  yet  lofty,  as  if 
inspired  by  the  soul  within.  Angels  in  the  old 
poetic  philosophy  have  such  forms ;  it  was  the  soul 
itself  imprinted  on  the  air.  And  what  a  soul  was 
hers  !  A  temple  dedicated  to  Heaven,  and,  like 
the  Pantheon  at  Home,  lighted  only  from  above. 
And  earthly  passions  in  the  form  of  gods  were  na 


THE  EVENING  AND  MORNING   STAR     165 

longer  there,  but  the  sweet  and  thoughtful  faces 
of  Christ,  and  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  the  Saints. 
Thus  there  was  not  one  discordant  thing  in  her ; 
but  a  perfect  harmony  of  figure,  and  face,  and 
soul,  —  in  a  word,  of  the  whole  being.  And  he 
who  had  a  soul  to  comprehend  hers  must  of  neces- 
sity love  her,  and,  having  once  loved  her,  could 
love  no  other  woman  forevermore. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  Flemming  felt  his  heart 
drawn  towards  her,  as,  in  her  morning  walk,  she 
passed  him,  sitting  alone  under  the  great  walniit- 
trees  near  the  cloister,  and  thinking  of  heaven,  not 
of  her.  She,  too,  was  alone.  Her  cheek  was  no 
longer  pale  ;  but  glowing  and  bright,  with  the  in- 
spiration of  the  summer  air.  Flemming  gazed 
after  her,  till  she  disappeared,  even  as  a  vision  of 
his  dreams,  he  knew  not  whither.  He  was  not  yet 
in  love,  but  very  near  it,  for  he  thanked  God 
that  he  had  made  such  beautiful  beings  to  walk 
the  earth. 

Last  niofht  he  had  heard  a  voice  to  which  his 
soul  responded ;  and  he  might  have  gone  on  his 
way  and  taken  no  further  heed.  But  he  would 
have  heard  that  voice  afterwards,  whenever  at 
evening  he  thought  of  this  evening  at  Interlachen. 
To-day  he  had  seen  more  clearly  the  vision,  and 
his  restless  soul  grew  calm.  The  place  seemed 
pleasant  to  him,  and  he  could  not  go.  He  did 
not  ask  himself  whence  came  this  calm.  He  felt 
it,  and  was  happy  in  the  feeling ;  and  blessed  the 
landscape  and  the  summer  morning,  as  if  they  pos- 
sessed the  wonder-working  power. 

*'A   pleasant  morning-dream    to   you,"    said   a 


106  HYPERION 

friendly  voice  ;  and  at  the  same  moment  some 
one  laid  his  hand  upon  Flemniing's  slioulder.  It 
was  Berkley.  He  had  approached  unseen  and  un- 
heard. 

"  I  see  by  the  smile  on  your  countenance,"  he 
continued,  "  that  it  is  no  day-incubus." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  Flcmming.  "It  was 
a  pleasant  dream,  which  you  have  put  to  flight." 

"  And  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  have  also  put 
to  flight  the  gloomy  thoughts  which  used  to  haunt 
you.  I  like  to  see  people  cheerful  and  happy. 
Why  give  way  to  sadness  in  this  beautiful  world  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  this  beautiful  world !  "  said  Flemming, 
with  a  smile.  "  Indeed,  I  know  not  what  to  think 
of  it.  Sometimes  it  is  all  gladness  and  sunshine, 
and  heaven  itself  lies  not  far  off.  And  then  it 
changes  suddenly,  and  is  dark  and  sorrowful,  and 
clouds  shut  out  the  sky.  In  the  lives  of  the  sad- 
dest of  us,  there  arc  bright  days  like  this,  when 
we  feel  as  if  we  could  take  the  great  world  in  our 
arms.  Then  come  the  gloomy  hours,  when  the  fire 
will  neither  burn  on  our  hearths  nor  in  our  hearts, 
and  all  without  and  within  is  dismal,  cold,  and 
dark.  Believe  me,  every  heart  has  its  secret  sor- 
rows which  the  world  knows  not,  and  oftentimes 
we  call  a  man  cold,  when  he  is  only  sad." 

"  And  who  says  we  do  not  ?  "  interrupted  Berk- 
ley. "  Come,  come  !  Let  us  go  to  breakfast.  The 
morning  air  has  given  me  a  rude  appetite.  I  long 
to  say  grace  over  a  fresh  egg^  and  eat  salt  with 
my  worst  enemies  ;  namely,  the  Cockneys  at  the 
hotel.  After  breakfast  you  must  give  yourself 
up  wholly  to  me.  I  shall  take  you  to  the  Grindei 
wald ! " 


THE  EVENING  AND  MORNING  STAR     167 

"To-day,  then,  you  do  not  breakfast  like  Di- 
ogenes, but  consent  to  leave  your  tub." 

"  Yes,  for  the  pleasure  of  your  company.  I  shall 
also  blow  out  the  light  in  my  lantern,  having  found 
you." 

"  Thank  you." 

The  breakfast  passed  without  any  unusual  occur- 
rence. Flemming  watched  the  entrance  of  every 
guest ;  but  she  came  not,  —  the  guest  he  most  de- 
sired to  see. 

"  And  now  for  the  Grindelwald  !  "  said  Berkley. 

"  Why  such  haste  ?  We  have  the  whole  day 
before  us.     There  is  time  enough." 

"  Not  a  moment  to  lose,  I  assure  you.  The  car- 
riage is  at  the  door." 

They  drove  up  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  and 
turned  eastward  among  the  mountains  of  Grindel- 
wald. There  they  passed  the  day ;  half -frozen  by 
the  icy  breath  of  the  Great  Glacier,  upon  whose 
surface  stand  pyramids  and  blocks  of  ice,  like  the 
tombstones  of  a  cemetery.  It  was  a  weary  day  to 
Flemming.  He  wished  himself  at  Interlachen ; 
and  was  glad,  when,  towards  evening,  he  saw  once 
more  the  cone-roofed  towers  of  the  cloister  rising 
above  the  walnut-trees. 

That  evening  is  written  in  red  letters  in  his  his- 
tory. It  gave  him  another  revelation  of  the  beauty 
and  excellence  of  woman's  character  and  intellect ; 
not  wholly  new  to  him,  yet  now  renewed  and  forti- 
fied. It  was  from  the  lips  of  Mary  Ashburton  that 
the  revelation  came.  Her  form  arose,  like  a  trem- 
ulous evening-star,  in  the  firmament  of  his  soul. 
He  conversed  with  her,  and  with  her  alone ;  and 


168  HYPERION 

knew  not  when  to  go.  All  others  were  to  him  as 
if  they  were  not  there.  lie  saw  their  forms,  but 
saw  them  as  the  forms  of  inanimate  things.  At 
length  her  mother  came,  and  Flemming  beheld  in 
her  but  another  Mary  Ashburton,  with  beauty 
more  mature  ;  —  the  same  forehead  and  eyes,  the 
same  majestic  figure  ;  and,  as  yet,  no  trace  of  age. 
He  gazed  upon  her  with  a  feeling  of  delight,  not 
unmingled  with  holy  awe.  She  was  to  him  the  rich 
and  glowing  Evening,  from  whose  bosom  the  trem- 
ulous star  was  born. 

Berkley  took  no  active  part  in  the  conversation, 
but  did  what  was  much  more  to  the  purpose,  —  that 
is  to  say,  arranged  a  drive  for  the  next  day  with  the 
Ashburtons,  and  of  course  invited  Flemming,  who 
went  home  that  night  with  a  halo  round  his  head, 
and  wondering  much  at  a  dandy,  who  stood  at  the 
door  of  the  hotel,  and  said  to  his  companion,  as 
Flemming  passed :  — 

"  What  do  you  call  this  place  ?  I  have  been 
here  two  hours  already,  and  find  it  devilish  dull !  " 

CHAPTER  V. 

A   RAINY   DAY. 

When  Flemming  awoke  the  next  morning,  he 
saw  the  sky  dark  and  lowering.  From  the  moun- 
tain-tops hung  a  curtain  of  mist,  whose  heavy  folds 
waved  to  and  fro  in  the  valley  below.  Over  all 
the  landscape  the  soft  summer  rain  was  falling. 
No  admiring  eyes  would  look  up  that  day  at  the 
Staubbach. 


A   RAINY  DAY  169 

A  rainy  clay  in  Switzerland  puts  a  sudden  stop 
to  many  diversions.  The  coachman  may  drive  to 
the  inn,  and  then  hack  to  the  stable ;  but  no  far- 
ther. The  sun-burnt  guide  may  sit  at  the  ale- 
house door,  and  welcome,  and  the  boatman  whistle 
and  curse  the  clouds,  at  his  own  sweet  will ;  —  but 
no  foot  stirs  abroad  for  all  that ;  no  traveller  moves, 
if  he  has  time  to  stay.  The  rainy  day  gives  him 
time  for  reflection.  He  has  leisure  now  to  take 
cognizance  of  his  impressions,  and  make  up  his 
account  with  the  mountains.  He  remembers,  too, 
that  he  has  friends  at  home,  and  writes  up  the 
journal,  neglected  for  a  week  or  more,  and  letters 
neglected  longer ;  or  finishes  the  rough  pencil- 
sketch  begun  yesterday  in  the  open  air.  On  the 
whole,  he  is  not  sorry  it  rains,  —  though  dis- 
appointed. 

Flemming  was  both  sorry  and  disappointed ;  but 
he  did  not  on  that  account  fail  to  go  over  to  the 
Ashburtons  at  the  appointed  hour.  He  found  them 
sitting  in  the  parlor.  The  mother  was  reading, 
and  the  daughter  retouching  a  sketch  of  the  Lake 
of  Thun.  After  the  usual  salutations,  Flemming 
seated  himself  near  the  daughter,  and  said  :  — 

"  We  shall  have  no  Staubbach  to-day,  I  pre- 
sume ;  only  this  Giessbach  from  the  clouds." 

"  Nothing  more,  I  suppose.  So  we  must  be 
content  to  stay  in-doors,  and  listen  to  the  sound 
of  the  eaves-dropping  rain.  It  gives  me  time  to 
finish  some  of  these  rough  sketches." 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  pastime,"  said  Flemming ; 
"  and  I  perceive  you  are  very  skilful.  I  am  de- 
lighted to  see  that  you  can  draw  a  straight  line. 


170  HYPERION 

I  never  before  saw  a  lady's  sketch-book  In  which 
all  the  towers  did  not  resemble  the  Leaning  Tower 
of  Pisa.  I  always  tremble  for  the  little  men  under 
them." 

"  How  absurd  !  "  exclaimed  Mary  Ashburton, 
with  a  smile  that  passed  through  the  misty  air  of 
Flemming's  thoughts  like  a  sunbeam.  "  For  one, 
I  succeed  much  better  in  straight  lines  than  in  any 
others.  Here  I  have  been  trying  a  half-hour  to 
make  this  water-wheel  round,  and  round  it  never 
will  be." 

"  Then  let  it  remain  as  it  is.  It  looks  uncom- 
monly picturesque,  and  may  pass  for  a  new  in- 
vention." 

The  lady  continued  to  sketch,   and  Flemming 

to  gaze  at  her  beautiful  face ;  often  repeating  to 

himself  those  lines  in  Mario w's  Faust :  — 

Oh,  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air, 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars  ! 

He  certainly  would  have  betrayed  himseK  to 
the  maternal  eye  of  Mrs.  Ashburton,  had  she  not 
been  wholly  absorbed  in  the  follies  of  a  fashion- 
able novel.  Erelong,  the  fair  sketcher  had  paused 
for  a  moment ;  and  Flemming  had  taken  her 
sketch-book  in  his  hands  and  was  looking  it 
through  from  the  beginning  with  ever-increasing 
delight,  half  of  which  he  dared  not  express,  though 
he  favored  her  with  some  comments  and  bursts  of 
admiration. 

"  This  is  truly  a  very  beautiful  sketch  of  Murten 
and  the  battle-field !  How  quietly  the  landscape 
sleeps  there  by  the  lake,  after  the  battle  !  Did 
you  ever  read  the  ballad  of  Veit  Weber,  the  shoe. 


A  RAINY  DAY  171 

maker,  on  tLis  subject  ?  He  says,  the  routed  Bur- 
gundians  jumped  into  tlie  lake,  and  the  Swiss 
Leaguers  shot  them  down  like  wild  ducks  among 
the  reeds.  He  fought  in  the  battle,  and  wrote  the 
ballad  afterwards ;  — 

"He  had  himself  laid  hand  on  sword, 
He  who  this  rhyme  did  write ; 
Till  evening  mowed  he  with  the  sword, 
And  sang  the  song  at  night." 

"  You  must  give  me  the  whole  ballad,"  said 
Miss  Ashburton ;  "  it  will  serve  to  illustrate  the 
sketch." 

"  And  the  sketch  to  illustrate  the  ballad.  And 
now  we  suddenly  slide  down  the  Alps  into  Italy, 
and  are  even  in  Rome,  if  I  mistake  not.  This  is 
surely  a  head  of  Homer  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lady,  with  a  little  enthusiasm. 
"  Do  you  not  remember  the  marble  bust  at  Rome  ? 
When  I  first  beheld  that  bust,  it  absolutely  in- 
spired me  with  awe.  It  is  not  the  face  of  a  man, 
but  of  a  god  I  " 

"  And  you  have  done  it  no  injustice  in  your 
copy,"  said  Flemming,  catching  a  new  enthusiasm 
from  hers.  "  With  what  a  classic  grace  the  fillet, 
passing  round  the  majestic  forehead,  confines  his 
flowing  locks,  which  mingle  with  his  beard  ! 
The  countenance,  too,  is  calm,  majestic,  godlike ! 
Even  the  fixed  and  sightless  eyeballs  do  not  mar 
the  image  of  the  seer !  Such  were  the  sightless 
eyes  of  the  blind  old  man  of  Chios.  They  seem 
to  look  with  mournful  solemnity  into  the  myste- 
rious future,  and  the  marble  lips  to  repeat  that 
prophetic  passage  in  the  Hymn  to  Apollo :  '  Let 


172  HYPERION 

me  also  hope  to  be  remembered  in  ages  to  come. 
And  wlien  any  one,  born  of  the  tribes  of  men, 
comes  hither,  a  weary  traveller,  and  inquioes,  who 
is  the  sweetest  of  the  singing-men  that  resort  to 
your  feasts,  and  whom  you  most  delight  to  hear, 
do  you  make  answer  for  me :  It  is  the  Blind  Man 
who  dwells  in  Chios ;  his  songs  excel  all  that  can 
ever  be  sung !  '  But  do  you  really  believe  that 
this  is  a  portrait  of  Homer  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not !  It  is  only  an  artist's  dream. 
It  was  thus  that  Homer  appeared  to  him  in  his 
visions  of  the  antique  world.  Every  one,  you 
know,  forms  an  image  in  his  fancy  of  persons  and 
things  he  has  never  seen,  and  the  artist  repro- 
duces them  in  marble  or  on  canvas." 

"  And  what  is  the  image  in  your  fancy  ?  Is  it 
like  this  ?  " 

"  No,  not  entirely.  I  have  drawn  my  impres- 
sions from  another  source.  Whenever  I  think  of 
Homer,  which  is  not  often,  he  walks  before  me, 
solemn  and  serene,  as  in  the  vision  of  the  great 
Italian  ;  in  countenance  neither  sorrowful  nor  glad, 
followed  by  other  bards,  and  holding  in  his  right 
hand  a  sword  !  " 

"  That  is  a  finer  conception  than  this,"  said 
riemming.  "  And  I  perceive  from  your  words,  as 
well  as  from  this  book,  that  you  have  a  true  feel- 
ing for  Art,  and  understand  what  it  is.  You  have 
had  bright  glimpses  into  the  enchanted  land." 

"  I  trust,"  replied  the  lady,  modestly,  "  that  I 
am  not  wholly  without  this  feeling.  Certainly  I 
have  as  strong  and  passionate  a  love  of  Art  as  of 
Nature." 


A   RAINY  DAY  173 

"  But  does  it  not  often  offend  you  to  hear  peoj^le 
speaking-  of  Art  and  Nature  as  opposite  and  dis- 
cordant things  ?  Surely  nothing  can  be  more  false. 
Nature  is  a  revelation  of  God ;  Art  a  revelation  of 
man.  Indeed,  Art  signifies  no  more  than  this. 
Art  is  Power.  That  is  the  original  meaning  of  the 
word.  It  is  the  creative  power  by  which  the  soul 
of  man  makes  itself  known,  through  some  external 
manifestation  or  outward  sign.  As  we  can  always 
hear  the  voice  of  God,  walking  in  the  garden,  in 
the  cool  of  the  day,  or  under  the  starlight,  where, 
to  quote  one  of  this  poet's  verses,  '  high  prospects 
and  the  brows  of  all  steep  hills  and  pinnacles  thrust 
up  themselves  for  shows,'  —  so  under  the  twilight 
and  the  starlight  of  past  ages  do  we  hear  the  voice 
of  man,  walking  amid  the  works  of  his  hands,  and 
city  walls  and  towers,  and  the  spires  of  churches, 
thrust  up  themselves  for  shows." 

The  lady  smiled  at  his  warmth  ;  and  he  con- 
tinued :  — 

"  This,  however,  is  but  a  similitude ;  and  Art 
and  Nature  are  more  nearly  allied  than  by  simili- 
tudes only.  Art  is  the  revelation  of  man  ;  and  not 
merely  that,  but  likewise  the  revelation  of  Nature, 
speaking  through  man.  Art  preexists  in  Nature, 
and  Nature  is  reproduced  in  Art.  As  vapors  from 
the  ocean,  floating  landward  and  dissolved  in  rain, 
are  carried  back  in  rivers  to  the  ocean,  so  thoughts 
and  the  semblances  of  things  that  fall  upon  the 
soul  of  man  in  showers  flow  out  again  in  living 
streams  of  Art,  and  lose  themselves  in  the  great 
ocean,  which  is  Nature.  Art  and  Nature  are  not, 
then,  discordant,  but  ever  harmoniously  working  in 
each  other." 


174  HYPERION 

Enthusiasm  begets  enthusiasm.  Flemming  spake 
witli  such  evident  interest  in  the  svibject  that  Miss 
Ashburton  did  not  fail  to  manifest  some  interest 
in  what  he  said  ;  and  encouraged  by  this,  he  pro- 
ceeded :  — 

"  Thus  in  this  wondrous  world  wherein  we  live, 
which  is  the  World  of  Nature,  man  has  made  unto 
himself  another  world  hardly  less  wondrous,  which 
is  the  World  of  Art.  And  it  lies  infolded  and 
compassed  about  by  the  other, 

"  Aud  the  clear  region  where  't  was  bom 
Roimd  in  itself  encloses. 

Taking  this  view  of  Art,  I  think  we  understand 
more  easily  the  skill  of  the  artist,  and  the  differ- 
ence between  him  and  the  mere  amateur.  What 
we  call  miracles  and  wonders  of  Art  are  not  so 
to  him  who  created  them,  for  they  were  created 
by  the  natural  movements  of  his  own  great  soul. 
Statues,  paintings,  churches,  poems,  are  but  shad- 
ows of  himself ;  shadows  in  marble,  colors,  stone, 
words.  He  feels  and  recognizes  their  beauty ;  but 
he  thought  these  thoughts  and  produced  these 
things  as  easily  as  inferior  minds  do  thoughts  and 
things  inferior ;  perhaps  more  easily.  Vague  im- 
ages and  shapes  of  beauty  floating  through  the 
soul,  the  semblances  of  things  as  yet  indefinite  or 
ill-defined,  and  perfect  only  when  put  in  Art,  — 
this  Possible  Intellect,  as  the  Scholastic  Philoso- 
phers have  termed  it,  —  the  artist  shares  in  common 
with  us  all.  The  lovers  of  Art  are  many.  But 
the  Active  Intellect,  the  creative  power,  —  the 
power  to  put  these  shapes  and  images  in  Art,  to 
embody  the  indefinite,  and  render  perfect,  —  is  his 


A    RAINY  DAY  175 

alone.  He  shares  the  gift  with  few.  He  knows 
not  even  whence  nor  how  this  is.  He  knows  only 
that  it  is ;  that  God  has  given  him  the  power,  which 
^as  been  denied  to  others." 

"  I  should  have  known  you  were  just  from  Ger- 
many," said  the  lady,  with  a  smile,  "  even  if  you 
had  not  told  me  so.  You  are  an  enthvisiast  for  the 
Germans.  For  my  part,  I  cannot  endure  their 
harsh  language." 

"  You  would  like  it  better,  if  you  knew  it  bet- 
ter," answered  Flemming.  "  It  is  not  harsh  to 
me,  but  homelike,  hearty,  and  full  of  feeling,  — 
like  the  sound  of  happy  voices  at  a  fireside,  of  a 
winter's  night,  when  the  wind  blows,  and  the  fire 
crackles,  and  hisses,  and  snaps.  I  do  indeed  love 
the  Germans  ;  the  men  are  so  hale  and  hearty,  and 
the  Frauleins  so  tender  and  true  !  " 

"  I  always  think  of  men  with  pipes  and  beer,  and 
women  with  knitting- work." 

"  Oh,  those  are  English  prejudices  !  "  exclaimed 
Flemming.     "  Nothing  can  be  more  "  — 

"  And  their  very  literature  presents  itself  to  my 
imagination  under  the  same  forms." 

"  I  see  you  have  read  only  English  criticisms ; 
and  have  an  idea,  that  all  German  books  smell,  as 
one  of  your  English  critics  says,  '  of  groceries,  of 
brown  papers  filled  with  greasy  cakes  and  slices  of 
bacon,  and  of  f ryings  in  f rouzy  back-parlors  ; '  and 
this  shuts  you  out  from  a  glorious  world  of  poetry, 
romance,  and  dreams  !  " 

Mary  Ashburtou  smiled,  and  Flemming  con- 
tinued to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  sketch-book, 
with  au   occasional   criticism   and  witticism.     At 


176  HYPERION 

length  he  came  to  a  leaf  which  was  written  in 
pencil.  Peojile  of  a  lively  imagination  are  gen- 
erally curious,  and  always  so  when  a  little  in  love. 

"  Here  is  a  pencil-sketch,"  said  he,  with  an  en- 
treating look,  "which  I  would  fain  examine  with 
the  rest." 

"  You  may  do  so,  if  you  wish,  but  you  will  find 
it  the  poorest  sketch  in  the  book.  I  was  trying  one 
day  to  draw  the  picture  of  an  artist's  life  in  Kome, 
as  it  presented  itself  to  my  imagination ;  and  this 
is  the  result.  Perhaps  it  may  awaken  some  pleas- 
ant recollection  in  your  mind." 

riemming  waited  no  longer,  but  read  with  the 
eyes  of  a  lover,  not  of  a  critic,  the  following  de- 
scription, which  inspired  him  with  a  new  enthusi- 
asm for  Art,  and  for  Mary  Ashburton. 

"  I  often  reflect  with  delight  upon  the  young  ar- 
tist's life  in  Rome.  A  stranger  from  the  cold  and 
gloomy  North,  he  has  crossed  the  Alps,  and  with 
the  devotion  of  a  pilgrim  journeyed  to  the  Eternal 
City.  He  dwells,  perhaps,  upon  the  Pincian  Hill, 
and  hardly  a  house  there,  which  is  not  inhabited 
by  artists  from  foreign  lands.  The  very  room  he 
lives  in  has  been  their  abode  time  out  of  mind. 
Their  names  are  written  all  over  the  walls ;  per- 
haps some  further  record  of  them  is  left  in  a 
rough  sketch  upon  the  window-shutter,  with  an  in- 
scription and  a  date.  These  things  consecrate  the 
place,  in  his  imagination.  Even  these  names, 
though  unknown  to  him,  are  not  without  associa- 
tions in  his  mind. 

"  In  that  warm  latitude  he  rises  with  the  day. 
The  night-vapors  are  already  rolling  away  over  the 


A   RAINY  DAY  177 

Campagna  seaward.  As  he  looks  from  liis  window, 
above  and  beyond  their  white  folds  he  recognizes 
the  tremulous  blue  sea  at  Ostia.  The  rising  sun 
salutes  Soracte,  —  his  own  beloved  mountain  ; 
though  no  longer  worshipped  there,  as  of  old.  Be- 
fore him,  the  antique  house  of  Claude  Lorraine 
easts  its  long  brown  shadow  down  into  the  heart  of 
modern  Kome.  The  city  lies  still  asleep  and  silent. 
But  above  its  dark  roofs,  more  than  two  hundred 
steeples  catch  the  sunshine  on  their  gilded  weather- 
cocks. Presently  the  bells  begin  to  ring,  and,  as 
the  artist  listens  to  their  pleasant  chimes,  he  knows 
that  in  each  of  those  churches,  over  the  high  altar, 
hangs  a  painting  by  some  great  master's  hand, 
whose  beauty  comes  between  him  and  heaven,  so 
that  he  cannot  pray,  but  wonder  only. 

"  Among  these  works  of  art  he  j)asses  the  day  ; 
but  oftenest  in  St.  Peter's  and  the  Vatican.  Up 
the  vast  marble  staircase,  through  the  Corridor 
Chiaramonti,  through  vestibules,  galleries,  cham- 
bers, he  passes  as  in  a  dream.  All  are  filled  with 
busts  and  statues,  or  painted  in  daring  frescos. 
What  forms  of  strength  and  beauty  !  what  glorious 
creations  of  the  human  mind  !  and  in  that  last 
chamber  of  all,  standing  alone  upon  his  pedestal, 
the  Apollo  found  at  Antiuni,  in  such  a  majestic 
attitude,  with  such  a  no])le  countenance,  life-like, 
god-like  ! 

"  Or  perhaps  he  passes  intg  the  chambers  of  the 
painters,  but  goes  no  farther  than  the  second. 
For  in  the  middle  of  that  chamber  a  large  painting 
stands  upon  the  heavy  easel,  as  if  unfinished, 
though  more  than  three   hundred  years  ago  the 


178  HYPERION 

great  artist  completed  it,  and  then  laid  his  pencil 
away  forever,  leaving  this  last  benediction  to  the 
worlil.  It  is  the  Transfiguration  of  Clirist,  by 
Kaphael.  A  child  looks  not  at  the  stars  with 
greater  wonder  than  the  artist  at  this  painting. 
He  knows  how  many  studious  years  are  in  that 
picture.  He  knows  the  difficult  path  that  leads  to 
perfection,  having  himself  taken  some  of  the  first 
steps.  Thus  he  recalls  the  hour  when  that  broad 
canvas  was  first  stretched  upon  its  frame,  and 
Raphael  stood  before  it,  and  laid  the  first  colors 
upon  it,  and  beheld  the  figures  one  by  one  born 
into  life,  and  looked  upon  the  work  of  his  own 
hands  with  a  smile,  that  it  should  have  succeeded 
so  well.  He  recalls,  too,  the  hour  when,  the  task 
accomplished,  the  pencil  dropped  from  the  master's 
d3'ing  hand,  and  his  eyes  closed  to  open  on  a  more 
glorious  transfiguration,  and  at  length  the  dead 
Kaphael  lay  in  his  own  studio,  before  this  wonder- 
ful painting,  more  glorious  than  any  conqueror 
under  the  banners  and  armorial  hatchments  of  his 
funeral  I 

"  Think  you  that  such  sights  and  thoughts  as 
these  do  not  move  the  heart  of  a  young  man  and 
an  artist  ?  And  when  he  goes  forth  into  the  open 
air,  the  sun  is  going  down,  and  the  gray  ruins  of 
an  antique  world  receive  him.  From  the  Palace 
of  the  Csesars  he  looks  down  into  the  Forum,  or 
tow^ards  the  Coliseuiji ;  or  westward  sees  the  last 
sunshine  strike  the  Bronze  Archangel  which  stands 
upon  the  Tomb  of  Adrian.  He  walks  amid  a 
world  of  Art  in  ruins.  The  very  street-lamps,  that 
light  him  homeward,  burn  before  some  painted  or 


A   RAINY  DAY  179 

sculptured  image  of  the  Madonna !  What  wonder 
is  it  if  dreams  visit  him  in  his  sleep,  —  nay,  if  his 
whole  life  seem  to  him  a  dream  ?  AVhat  wonder, 
if,  with  a  feverish  heart  and  quick  hand,  he  strive 
to  reproduce  those  dreams  in  marble  or  on  can- 
vas ?  " 

Foolish  Paul  Flemming  !  who  both  admired  and 
praised  this  little  sketch,  and  yet  was  too  blind  to 
see  that  it  was  written  from  the  heart,  and  not 
from  the  imagination  !  Foolish  Paul  Flemming  ! 
who  thought  that  a  girl  of  twenty  could  write  thus 
without  a  reason  !  Close  upon  this  followed 
another  pencil  sketch,  which  he  likewise  read,  with 
her  permission.     It  was  this. 

"  The  whole  period  of  the  Middle  Ages  seems 
very  strange  to  me.  At  times  I  cannot  persuade 
myself  that  such  things  could  have  been  as  history 
tells  us  ;  that  such  a  strange  world  was  a  part  of 
our  world,  —  that  such  a  strange  life  was  a  part  of 
the  life  which  seems  to  us,  who  are  living  it  now, 
so  passionless  and  commonplace.  It  is  only  when 
I  stand  amid  ruined  castles,  that  look  at  me  so 
mournfully,  and  behold  the  heavy  armor  of  old 
knights,  hanging  upon  the  wainscot  of  Gothic 
chambers ;  or  when  I  walk  amid  the  aisles  of  some 
dusky  minster,  whose  walls  are  narrative  of  hoar 
antiquity,  and  whose  very  bells  have  been  baptized, 
and  see  the  carved  oaken  stalls  in  the  choir,  where 
so  many  generations  of  monks  have  sat  and  sung, 
and  the  tombs,  where  now  they  sleep  in  silence,  to 
awake  no  more  to  their  midnight  psalms  ;  —  it  is 
only  at  such  times  that  the  history  of  the  Middle 
Ages  is  a  reality  to  me,  and  not  a  passage  in 
romance. 


180  HYPERION 

"  Likewise  the  illuminated  manuscripts  of  those 
ages  have  something-  of  this  i)o\ver  of  making  the 
dead  Past  a  living  Present  in  my  mind.  What 
curious  figures  are  emblazoned  on  the  creaking 
parchment,  making  its  yellow  leaves  laugh  with 
gay  colors  !  You  seem  to  come  upon  them  un- 
awares. Their  faces  have  an  expression  of  wonder. 
They  seem  all  to  be  just  startled  from  their  sleep 
by  the  sound  you  made  when  you  unloosed  the 
brazen  clasps,  and  opened  the  curiously  carved 
oaken  covers,  that  turn  on  hinges,  like  the  great 
gates  of  a  city.  To  the  building  of  that  city  some 
diligent  monk  gave  the  whole  of  a  long  life. 
AVith  what  strange  denizens  he  peopled  it !  Adam 
and  Eve  standing  under  a  tree,  with  apples  in 
their  hands  ;  —  the  patriarch  Abraham,  with  a  tree 
growing  out  of  his  body,  and  his  descendants  sitting 
like  owls  upon  its  branches ;  —  ladies  with  flowing 
locks  of  gold ;  knights  in  armor,  with  most  fantas- 
tic, long-toed  shoes  ;  jousts  and  tournaments  ;  and 
Minnesingers,  and  lovers  whose  heads  reach  to  the 
towers  where  their  ladies  sit ;  and  all  so  angular, 
so  naive,  so  childlike,  all  in  such  simple  atti- 
tudes, with  such  great  eyes,  and  holding  up  such 
long,  lank  fingers  !  —  These  things  are  characteris- 
tic of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  persuade  me  of  the 
truth  of  history." 

At  this  moment  Berkley  entered,  with  a  Swiss 
cottage,  which  he  had  bought  as  a  present  for 
somebody's  child  in  England  ;  and  a  cane  with  a 
chamois-horn  on  the  end  of  it,  which  he  had  bought 
as  a  present  for  himself.  This  was  the  first  time 
that  Elemming  had  been  sorry  to  see  the  good* 


AFTER  DINNER  181 

natiired  man,  whose  presence  now  interrupted  the 
delightful  conversation  he  was  carrying  on  under 
four  eyes  with  Mary  Ashburton.  He  really  thought 
him  tedious,  and  wondered  it  had  never  occurred 
to  him  before.  Mrs.  Ashburton,  too,  must  needs 
lay  down  her  book,  and  the  conversation  became 
general.  Strange  to  say,  the  Swiss  dinner-hour  of 
one  o'clock  did  not  come  a  moment  too  soon  for 
Flemming.  It  did  not  even  occur  to  him  that  it 
was  early,  for  he  was  seated  beside  Mary  Ashbur- 
ton ;  and  at  dinner  one  can  say  so  much,  without 
being  overheard. 


CHAPTER  \T:. 

AFTER  Dnra^ER,  AND  AFTER   THE  MANNER   OF  THE 
BEST   CRITICS. 

When  the  learned  Thomas  Diafoirus  wooed  the 
fair  Angelique,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  medical 
thesis,  and  presented  it  to  her,  as  the  first-fruits  of 
his  genius,  and  at  the  same  time  invited  her,  with 
her  father's  permission,  to  attend  the  dissection  of 
a  woman,  upon  whom  he  was  to  lecture.  Paul 
Flemming  did  nearly  the  same  thing;  and  so 
often,  that  it  had  become  a  habit.  He  was  contin- 
ually drawing  from  his  pocket  or  his  memory  some 
scrap  of  song  or  story ;  and  inviting  some  fair  An- 
gelique, either  with  her  father's  permission  or  with- 
out, to  attend  the  dissection  of  an  author  upon 
whom  he  was  to  lecture.  He  soon  gave  proofs  of 
this  to  Mary  Ashburton. 

"  What  books  have  we  here  for  afternoon  read- 


182  HYPERION 

ing?"  said  Flemniing',  taking  a  volume  from  the 
table,  when  they  had  returned  from  the  dining- 
room.  "  Oh,  it  is  Uhland's  Poems.  Have  you 
read  anything  of  his?  He  and  Tieck  are  gener- 
ally considered  the  best  living  poets  of  Germany. 
They  dispute  the  palm  of  superiority.  Let  me 
give  you  a  lesson  in  German  this  afternoon.  Miss 
Ashburton  ;  so  that  no  one  may  accuse  you  of 
'  omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time,  to  clothe  your 
age  with  angel-like  perfection.'  I  have  opened 
at  random  upon  the  ballad  of  the  Black  Knight. 
Do  you  repeat  the  German  after  me,  and  I  will 
translate  to  you.  Pjingsten  ioa)\  das  Fest  der 
Freude  !  " 

"  I  should  never  persuade  my  unwilling  lips  to 
pronounce  such  sounds.  So  I  beg  you  not  to  per- 
plex me  with  your  German,  but  read  me  the  ballad 
in  English." 

"  Well,  then,  listen.  I  will  improvise  a  transla- 
tion for  your  own  particular  benefit. 

"  'T  was  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 
Thus  began  the  king,  and  spake  : 
'  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg's  walls 
A  luxiuiant  spring  shall  break.' 

"  Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly. 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 
From  balcony  the  king  looked  on ; 
In  the  play  of  spears, 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers 
Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 

*'  To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Hode  at  last  a  sable  knight. 


AFTER  DINNER  183 

*  Sir  Knig'lit. !   your  name  and  scutcheon  ?  say.' 
'  Should  1  speak  it  liere, 

Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear ; 
I  am  a  prince  of  mighty  sway  !  ' 

"  When  he  rode  into  the  lists, 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 

And  the  castle  'gau  to  rock. 

At  the  first  blow, 

Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow,  — 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

*'  Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 

Torchlight  through  the  high  halls  glances, 

Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in  ; 

With  manner  bland 

Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 

Dotli  with  her  the  dance  begin : 

*'  Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 

Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark. 
Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fell  from  her  the  fair 
Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

"  To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  knight  and  every  dame. 
'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournfid  mind 
The  ancient  king  reclined, 
Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

"  Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  : 

*  Golden  wine  ^vill  make  you  whole  !  ' 
The  children  drank, 

Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  : 
'  Oh,  that  draught  was  very  cool !  ' 

"  Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter ;  and  their  faces 
Colorless  grow  utterly. 


184  HYPERION 

Wliiehever  way 

Looks  the  fear-striick  father  gray, 

He  beholds  his  children  die. 

"  '  Woe  !   the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  : 
Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  I ' 
Spake  the  grim  guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast: 
'  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather!  '   " 

"  That  is  indeed  a  striking  ballad ! "  said  Miss 
Asliburton,  "  but  rather  too  grim  and  ghostly  for 
this  dull  afternoon." 

'•"  It  begins  joyously  enough  with  the  feast  of 
Pentecost,  and  the  crimson  banners  at  the  old  castle. 
Then  the  contrast  is  well  managed.  The  knight 
in  black  mail,  and  the  waving  in  of  the  mighty 
shadow  in  the  dance,  and  the  dropping  of  the 
faded  flowers,  are  all  strikingly  presented  to  the 
imagination.  However,  it  tells  its  own  story,  and 
needs  no  explanation.  Here  is  something  in  a  dif- 
ferent vein,  though  still  melancholy.  The  Castle 
by  the  Sea.     Shall  I  read  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  like." 

Flemming  read :  — 

"  '  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 
That  castle  by  the  sea  ? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 

The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"  '  And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow.' 

"  '  WiHl  have  I  seen  that  castle, 
That  castle  by  the  sea, 


AFTER  DINNER  185 

And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 
And  the  mist  rise  solemnly.' 

*'  '  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 
Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 
The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme  ?  ' 

"  '  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 
They  rested  quietly ; 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail. 
And  tears  came  to  mine  eye. ' 

"  *  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  king  and  his  royal  bride, 
And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles, 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

**  '  Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 
A  beauteous  maiden  there, 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 
Beaming  with  golden  hair  ?  ' 

"  '  Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 
Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe ; 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  !  '  " 

"  How  do  you  like  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  graceful,  and  pretty.  But  Uhland 
seems  to  leave  a  great  deal  to  his  reader's  imagina- 
tion. All  his  readers  should  be  poets  themselves, 
or  they  will  hardly  comprehend  him.  I  confess,  I 
hardly  understand  the  passage  where  he  speaks  of 
the  castle's  stooping  downward  to  the  mirrored 
wave  below,  and  then  soaring  upward  into  the 
gleaming  sky.  I  suppose,  however,  he  wishes  to 
express  the  momentary  illusion  we  experience 
when  beholding  a  perfect  reflection  of  an  old  tower 
iu  the  sea.     We  look  at  it  as  if  it  were  not  a  mere 


IbQ  HYPERION 

shadow  in  the  water  ;  and  yet  the  real  tower  rises 
far  above,  and  seems  to  float  in  the  crimson  even- 
ing clouds.     Is  that  the  meaning  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  it  was.  To  me  it  is  all  a  beau- 
tiful cloud  landscape,  which  I  comprehend  and  feel, 
and  yet  should  find  some  difficulty  perhaps  in  ex- 
plaining." 

"  And  why  need  one  always  explain  ?  Some 
feelings  are  quite  untranslatable.  No  language 
has  yet  been  found  for  them.  They  gleam  upon  us 
beautifully  through  the  dim  twilight  of  fancy,  and 
yet,  when  we  bring  them  close  to  us,  and  hold  them 
uj)  to  the  light  of  reason,  lose  their  beauty,  all  at 
once ;  as  glowworms,  which  glimmer  with  such  a 
spiritual  light  in  the  shadows  of  evening,  when 
brought  in  where  the  candles  are  lighted,  are  found 
to  be  only  worms,  like  so  many  others." 

"  Very  true.  We  ought  sometimes  to  be  content 
with  feeling.  Here,  now,  is  an  exquisite  piece, 
which  soothes  one  like  the  fall  of  evening  shadows, 
—  like  the  dewy  coolness  of  twilight  after  a  sultry 
day.  I  shall  not  give  you  a  bald  translation  of 
my  own,  because  I  have  laid  up  in  my  memory 
another,  which,  though  not  ver}^  literal,  equals  the 
original  in  beauty.  Observe  how  finely  it  com- 
mences. 

"  Many  a  year  is  in  its  prave 
Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave, 
And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

*'  Then,  in  this  same  boat,  beside, 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried ; 
One  with  all  a  father's  truth, 
One  witli  all  the  liie  of  youth. 


AFTER  DINNER  187 

"  One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 
But  the  younger,  brightei-  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

"  So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 
Back  upon  the  days  gone  by. 
Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me, 
Friends  who  closed  their  course  before  me. 

"  Yet  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul -like  were  those  hours  of  yore  ; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more  ! 

"  Take,  0  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee ; 
Take,  —  I  give  it  willingly  ; 
For,  invisible  to  thee, 
Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me  !  " 

"  Oil,  tliat  is  beautiful,  —  beautiful  exceedingly ! 
Who  translated  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  wish  I  could  find  out.  It 
is  certainly  admii-ably  well  done  ;  though  in  the 
measure  of  the  original  there  is  something  like  the 
rocking  motion  of  a  boat,  which  is  not  i^reserved 
in  the  translation." 

"  And  is  Uldand  always  so  soothing  and  spir- 
itual?"        ^ - 

"Yes,  he  generally  looks  into  the  spirit-world. 
I  am  now  trying  to  find  here  a  little  poem  on  the 
Death  of  a  Country  Clergyman,  in  which  he  intro- 
duces a  striking  picture.  But  I  cannot  turn  to  it. 
No  matter.  He  describes  the  spirit  of  the  good 
old  man,  returning  to  earth  on  a  bright  summer 
morning,  and  standing  amid  the  golden  corn  and 
the  red  and  blue  flowers,  and  mildly  greeting  the 
reapers  as  of  old.     But  there  is  nothing  morbid 


188  HYPERION 

in  Uhland's  mind.  lie  is  always  fresh  and  in- 
vigorating, like  a  breezy  morning.  In  this  he 
differs  entirely  from  such  writers  as  Salis  and  Mat- 
thisson." 

"  And  who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Two  melancholy  gentlemen  to  whom  life  was 
only  a  Dismal  Swamp,  upon  whose  margin  they 
walked  with  cambric  handkerchiefs  in  their  hands, 
sobbing  and  sighing,  and  making  signals  to  Death 
to  come  and  ferry  them  over  the  lake.  And  now 
their  spirits  stand  in  the  green  fields  of  German 
song  like  two  weeping-willows  bending  over  a 
grave.  To  read  their  poems  is  like  wandering 
through  a  village  churchyard  on  a  summer  even- 
ing, reading  the  inscriptions  uj)on  the  grave-stones, 
and  recalling  sweet  images  of  the  departed  ;  while 
above  you, 

*'  Hark  !  in  the  holy  g^ove  of  palms 
Where  the  stream  of  life  runs  free, 
Echoes,  iu  the  angels'  psalms, 
Sister  spirit !  haU  to  thee !  " 

"  How  musically  those  lines  flow !  Are  they 
Matthisson's  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  they  do  indeed  flow  musically.  I 
wish  I  had  his  poems  here.  I  should  like  to  read 
to  you  his  Elegy  on  the  Ruins  of  an  Ancient 
Castle.  It  is  an  imitation  of  Gray's  Elegy.  You 
have  been  at  Baden-Baden  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  last  summer." 

"And  have  not  forgotten"  — 

"  The  old  castle  ?  Of  course  not.  What  a  mag- 
nificent ruin  it  is  ?  " 

"That  is  the  scene  of  Matthisson's  poem,  an(J 


AFTER  DINNER  189 

seems  to  have  filled  the  melancholy  bard  with 
more  than  wonted  inspiration." 

"  I  should  very  much  like  to  see  the  poem,  —  1 
remember  that  old  ruin  with  so  much  delight." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  not  a  translation  of  it  for 
you.  Instead  of  it,  I  will  give  you  a  sweet  and 
mournful  poem  from  Salis.  It  is  called  The  Song 
of  the  Silent  Land. 

' '  Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
Ah  !   who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 
Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 
And  shattered  ^v^eeks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 
Wlio  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Thither,  oh,  thither, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

"  Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
To  you,  ye  houndless  regions 
Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning-visions 
Of  beauteous  souls  !     The  Future's  pledge  and  band ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

"  0  Land  !     O  Land  ! 
For  all  the  broken-hearted 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 
To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Is  not  that  a  beautiful  poem  ?  " 

Mary  Ashburton  made  no  answer.  She  had 
turned  away  to  hide  her  tears.  Flemming  won- 
dered that  Berkley  could  say  she  was  not  beau- 
tiful. Still  he  was  rather  pleased  than  offended  at 
it.  He  felt  at  that  moment  how  sweet  a  thing  it 
would  be  to  possess  one  who  should  seem  beautiful 


190  HYPERION 

to  liira  alone,  and  yet  to  him  be  more  beautiful 
than  all  the  world  beside  !  How  bright  the  world 
became  to  him  at  that  thought !  It  was  like  one 
of  those  paintings  in  which  all  the  light  streams 
from  the  face  of  the  Virgin.  Oh,  there  is  nothing 
holier,  in  this  life  of  ours,  than  the  first  conscious- 
ness of  love,  —  the  first  fluttering  of  its  silken 
wings  ;  the  first  rising  sound  and  breath  of  wind 
which  is  so  soon  to  sweep  through  the  soul,  to 
purify  or  to  destroy  ! 

Old  histories  tell  us  that  the  great  Emperor 
Charlemagne  stamped  his  edicts  with  the  hilt  of 
his  sword.  The  greater  Emperor,  Death,  stamps 
w'ith  the  blade,  and  they  are  signed  and  executed 
with  the  same  stroke.  Flemming  received  that 
night  a  letter  from  Heidelberg,  which  told  him 
that  Emma  of  Ilmenau  was  dead.  The  fate  of 
this  poor  girl  affected  him  deeply ;  and  he  said  in 
his  heart :  — 

"  Father  in  heaven  !  Why  was  the  lot  of  this 
weak  and  erring  child  so  hard?  What  had  she 
done,  to  be  so  tempted  in  her  weakness,  and  perish  ? 
Why  didst  thou  suffer  her  gentle  affections  to  lead 
her  thus  astray  ?  " 

And,  through  the  silence  of  the  awful  midnight, 
the  voice  of  an  avalanche  answered  from  the  dis- 
tant mountains,  and  seemed  to  say  :  — 

"  Peace  !  peace !  Why  dost  thou  question  GodV 
providence  ?  " 


TAKE   CARE!  191 

CHAPTER   VII. 
TAKE  care! 

Fair  is  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  with  its 
green  meadows  and  overhanging  cliffs.  The  ruined 
castle  of  Unspunnen  stands  like  an  armed  warder 
at  the  gate  of  the  enchanted  land.  In  calm  seren- 
ity the  snowy  mountains  rise  beyond.  Fairer  than 
the  Rock  of  Balmarusa,  yon  frowning  precipice 
looks  down  upon  us ;  and,  from  the  topmost  cliff, 
the  white  pennon  of  the  Brook  of  Dust  shimmers 
and  waves  in  the  sunny  air ! 

It  was  a  bright,  beautiful  morning  after  night- 
rain.  Every  dew-drop  and  rain-drop  had  a  whole 
heaven  within  it ;  and  so  had  the  heart  of  Paul 
Flemming,  as,  with  Mrs.  Ashburton  and  her  dark- 
eyed  daughter,  he  drove  up  the  Valley  of  Lauter- 
brunnen, —  the  Valley  of  Fountains-Only. 

"  How  beautiful  the  Jungfrau  looks  this  morn- 
ing !  "  exclaimed  he,  looking  at  Mary  Ashburton. 

She  thought  he  meant  the  mountain,  and  as- 
sented.    But  he  meant  her  likewise. 

"  And  the  mountains  beyond,"  he  continued, 
"  the  Monk  and  the  Silver-horn,  the  Wetter-horn, 
the  Schreck-horn,  and  the  Schwarz-horn,  —  all 
those  sublime  apostles  of  Nature,  whose  sermons 
are  avalanches  !  Did  you  ever  behold  anything 
more  grand  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes !  Mont  Blanc  is  more  grand,  when  you 
behold  it  from  the  hills  opposite.  It  was  there 
that  I  was  most  moved  by  the  magnificence  of 
Swiss  scenery.     It  was  a  morning  like  this;  and 


192  HYPERION 

the  clouds,  that  were  hovering  about  on  their  huge, 
shadowy  wings,  made  the  scene  only  the  more 
magnificent.  Before  me  lay  the  whole  panorama 
of  the  Alps ;  pine  forests  standing  dark  and  solemn 
at  the  base  of  the  mountains ;  and  half-way  up  a 
veil  of  mist,  above  which  rose  the  snowy  summits 
and  sharp  needles  of  rock,  which  seemed  to  float 
in  the  air,  like  a  fairy  world.  Then  the  glaciers 
stood  on  either  side,  winding  down  through  the 
mountain  ravines,  and  high  above  all  rose  the 
white,  dome-like  summit  of  Mont  Blanc.  And 
ever  and  anon  from  the  shroud  of  mist  came  the 
awful  sound  of  an  avalanche,  and  a  continual  roar, 
as  of  the  wind  through  a  forest  of  pines,  filled  the 
air.  It  was  the  roar  of  the  Ai-ve  and  Aveiron, 
breaking  from  their  icy  fountains.  Then  the 
mists  began  to  pass  away  ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
whole  firmament  were  rolling  together.  It  recalled 
to  my  mind  that  sublime  passage  in  the  Apoc- 
alypse :  '  I  saw  a  great  white  throne,  and  hun  that 
sat  thereon,  before  whose  face  the  heavens  and  the 
earth  fled  away,  and  found  no  place  !  '  —  I  cannot 
believe  that  upon  this  earth  there  is  a  more  mag- 
nificent scene  !  " 

"  It  must  be  grand  indeed,"  replied  Flemming. 
"  And  those  mighty  glaciers,  —  huge  monsters  with 
bristling  crests,  creeping  down  into  the  valley !  for 
it  is  said  they  really  move." 

"  Yes  ;  it  filled  me  with  a  strange  sensation  of 
awe  to  think  of  this.  They  seemed  to  me  like  the 
dragons  of  Northern  Romance,  which  come  down 
from  the  mountains  and  devour  whole  villages. 
A  little  hamlet  in  Chamouni  was  once  abandoned 


TAKE   CARE!  193 

by  its  inhabitants,  terrified  at  the  approach  of  the 
icy  dragon.  But  is  it  possible  you  have  never 
been  at  Chamouni  ?  " 

"  Never.  The  great  marvel  still  remains  unseen 
by  me." 

"  Then  how  can  you  linger  here  so  long  ?  Were 
I  in  your  place,  I  would  not  lose  an  hour." 

These  words  passed  over  the  opening  blossoms 
of  hope  in  the  soul  of  Flemming  like  a  cold  wind 
over  the  flowers  in  spring-time.  He  bore  it  as 
best  he  could,  and  changed  the  subject. 

I  do  not  mean  to  describe  the  valley  of  Lauter- 
brunnen,  nor  the  bright  day  passed  there.  I  know 
that  my  gentle  reader  is  blessed  with  the  divine 
gift  of  a  jDoetic  fancy ;  and  can  see  already  how 
the  mountains  rise,  and  the  torrents  fall,  and  the 
beautiful  valley  lies  between ;  and  how,  along  the 
dusty  road,  the  herdsman  blows  his  horn,  and 
travellers  come  and  go  in  charabancs,  like  Punch 
and  Judy  in  a  show-box.  He  knows  already  how 
romantic  ladies  sketch  romantic  scenes ;  and  how 
cold  meat  tastes  under  the  shadow  of  trees  ;  and 
how  time  flies,  when  we  are  in  love,  and  the  be- 
loved one  near.  One  little  incident  I  must,  how- 
ever, mention,  lest  his  fancy  should  not  suggest  it. 

Flemming  was  still  sitting  with  the  ladies  on 
the  green  slope  near  the  Staubbach,  or  Brook  of 
Dust,  when  a  young  man  clad  in  green  came  down 
the  valley.  It  was  a  German  mechanic,  with 
flaxen  ringlets  hanging  over  his  shoulders,  and  a 
guitar  in  his  hand.  His  step  was  free  and  elastic, 
and  his  countenance  wore  the  joyous  expression  of 
youth  and  health.     He  approached  the  company 


194  HYPERION 

with  a  courteous  salutation ;  and,  after  the  manner 
of  travelling  apprentices,  asked  charity  with  the 
confident  air  of  one  unaccustomed  to  refusal.  Nor 
was  he  refused  in  this  instance.  The  presence  of 
those  we  love  makes  us  compassionate  and  gener- 
ous. Flemming  gave  him  a  piece  of  gold  ;  and, 
after  a  short  conversation,  he  seated  himself  at  a 
little  distance  on  the  grass,  and  began  to  play  and 
sing.  Wonderful  and  many  were  the  soft  accords 
and  plaintive  sounds  tliat  came  from  that  little 
instrument,  touched  by  the  clever  hand.  Every 
feeling  of  the  human  heart  seemed  to  find  an  ex- 
pression there,  and  awaken  a  kindred  feeling  in 
the  hearts  of  those  who  heard  him.  He  sang 
strange  German  songs,  so  full  of  longing,  and  of 
pleasing  sadness,  and  hope,  and  fear,  and  passion- 
ate desire,  and  soul-subduing  sorrow,  that  the  tears 
came  into  Mary  Ashburton's  eyes,  though  she 
understood  not  the  words  he  sang.  Then  his 
countenance  glowed  with  triumph,  and  he  beat  the 
strings  like  a  drum,  and  sang :  — 

Oh,  how  the  drum  beats  so  loud ! 
Close  beside  me  in  the  fight, 
My  dying-  brother  says,  Good  Night ! 
And  the  cannon's  awful  breath 
Screams  the  loud  halloo  of  Death  ! 

And  the  drum, 

And  the  drum, 

Beats  so  loud ! 

Many  were  the  words  of  praise  when  the  young 
musician  ended  ;  and,  as  he  rose  to  depart,  they 
still  entreated  for  one  song  more.  Whereupon  he 
played  a  lively  prelude,  and,  looking  full  into  Flem- 
ming's  face,  sang,  with  a  pleasant  smile  and  still  in 
German,  this  little  song  :  — 


TAKE   CARE!  195 

I  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see  ; 

Take  care  ! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be. 

Beware !     Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown  ; 

Take  care ! 
She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down. 

Beware !     Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue ; 

Take  care ! 
And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true. 

Beware !     Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not. 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow ; 

Take  care  ! 
She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show. 

Beware !     Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee ! 

She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair ; 

Take  care  ! 
It  is  a  fool's-cap  for  thee  to  wear. 

Beware !     Beware ! 

Trust  her  not. 
She  is  fooling  thee ! 

The  last  stanza  he  sung  in  a  laughing,  tri- 
nmpliant  tone,  which  resounded  above  the  loud 
clang  of  his  guitar  like  the  jeering  laugh  of  Till 
Eulenspiegel.  Then,  slinging  his  guitar  over  his 
shoulder,  he  took  off  his  green  cap,  and  made  a  leg 
to  the  ladies,  in  the  style  of  Gil  Bias  ;   waved  his 


196  HYPERION 

hand  in  the  air,  and  walked  quickly  down  the  val» 
ley,  singing,  "  Ad^  !  Ad(3 !  Add  !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   FOUNTAIN   OF   OBLIVION. 

The  power  of  magic  in  the  Middle  Ages  created 
monsters  who  followed  the  unhappy  magician  every- 
where. The  power  of  love  in  all  ages  creates  an- 
gels, who  likewise  follow  the  happy  or  unhappy 
lover  everywhere,  even  in  his  dreams.  By  such  an 
angel  was  Paul  Flemming  now  haunted,  both  when 
he  waked  and  when  he  slept.  He  walked  as  in  a 
dream,  and  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  those  around  him.  A  sweet  face  looked  at  him 
from  every  page  of  every  book  he  read  ;  and  it  was 
the  face  of  Mary  Ashburton !  —  a  sweet  voice  spake 
to  him  in  every  sound  he  heard  ;  and  it  was  the 
voice  of  Mary  Ashburton !  Day  and  night  suc- 
ceeded each  other,  with  pleasant  interchange  of 
light  and  darkness ;  but  to  him  the  passing  of  time 
was  only  as  a  dream.  When  he  arose  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  thought  only  of  her,  and  wondered  if  she 
were  yet  awake ;  and  when  he  lay  dowTi  at  night, 
he  thought  only  of  her,  and  how,  like  the  Lady 
Christabel, 

Her  gentle  limbs  she  did  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness  ! 

And  the  livelong  day  he  was  with  her,  either  in  re- 
ality or  in  day-dreams  hardly  less  real ;  for  in  each 
delirious  vision  of  his  waking  hours,  her  beauteous 
form   passed   like   the  form   of  Beatrice  through 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION         197 

Dante's  heaven ;  and,  as  he  lay  in  the  summer 
afternoon,  and  heard  at  times  the  sound  of  the 
wind  in  the  trees,  and  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells 
ascending  up  to  heaven,  holy  wishes  and  prayers 
ascended  with  them  from  his  inmost  soul,  beseech- 
ing that  he  might  not  love  in  vain  !  And  when- 
ever, in  silence  and  alone,  he  looked  into  the  silent, 
lonely  countenance  of  Night,  he  recalled  the  im- 
passioned lines  of  Plato  :  — 

Lookest  thou  at  the  stars  ?     If  I  were  heaven, 

With  all  the  eyes  of  heaven  would  I  look  down  on  thee ! 

Oh,  how  beautiful  it  is  to  love  !  Even  thou,  that 
sneerest  at  this  page,  and  laughest  in  cold  indiffer- 
ence or  scorn,  if  others  are  near  thee,  —  thou  too 
must  acknowledge  its  truth,  when  thou  art  alone  ; 
and  confess  that  a  foolisli  world  is  prone  to  laugh 
in  public  at  what  in  private  it  reveres,  as  one 
of  the  highest  impulses  of  our  nature,  —  namely, 
Love ! 

One  by  one  the  objects  of  our  affection  depart 
from  us.  But  our  affections  remain,  and  like  vines 
stretch  forth  their  broken,  wounded  tendrils  for 
support.  The  bleeding  heart  needs  a  balm  to  heal 
it ;  and  there  is  none  but  the  love  of  its  kind,  — 
none  but  the  affection  of  a  human  heart !  Thus 
the  wounded,  broken  affections  of  Flemming  began 
to  lift  themselves  from  the  dust  and  cling  around 
this  new  object.  Days  and  weeks  passed,  and, 
like  the  student  Crisostomo,  he  ceased  to  love,  be- 
cause he  beffan  to  adore.  And  with  this  adoration 
mingled  the  prayer,  that,  in  that  hour  when  the 
world  is  still,  and  the  voices  that  praise  are  mute, 
and  reflection  cometh  like  twilight,  and  the  maiden, 


198  HYPERION 

in  her  day-dreams,  counted  the  number  of  her 
friends,  some  voice  in  the  sacred  silence  of  her 
thoughts  might  whisper  his  name  ! 

They  were  sitting  together  one  morning,  on  the 
green,  flowery  meadow,  under  the  ruins  of  Burg 
Unspunnen.  She  was  sketching  the  ruins.  The 
birds  were  singing,  one  and  all,  as  if  there  were  no 
aching  hearts,  no  sin  nor  sorrow  in  the  world.  So 
motionless  was  the  bright  air,  that  the  shadow  of 
the  trees  lay  engraven  on  the  gi-ass.  The  dis- 
tant snow-peaks  sparkled  in  the  sun,  and  nothing 
frowned,  save  the  square  tower  of  the  old  ruin 
above  them. 

"  What  a  pity  it  is,"  said  the  lady,  as  she  stopped 
to  rest  her  weary  fingers,  "  what  a  pity  it  is, 
that  there  is  no  old  tradition  connected  with  this 


rum 


"  I  will  make  you  one,  if  you  wish,"  said  Flem- 
ming. 

"  Can  you  make  old  traditions  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  made  three,  the  other  day,  about 
the  Rhine,  and  one  very  old  one  about  the  Black 
Forest.  A  lady  wnth  dishevelled  hair  ;  a  robber 
with  a  horrible  slouched  hat ;  and  a  night  storm 
among  the  roaring  pines." 

"  Delightful !     Do  make  one  for  me." 

"  AVith  the  greatest  pleasure.  "Where  will  you 
have  the  scene  ?     Here,  or  in  the  Black  Forest  ?  " 

"  In  the  Black  Forest,  by  all  means  !     Begin." 

"  I  will  unite  this  ruin  and  the  forest  together. 
But  first  promise  not  to  interrupt  me.  If  you  snap 
tlie  golden  threads  of  thought,  they  will  float  away 
on  the  air  like  the  film  of  the  gossamer,  and  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  recover  them." 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF   OBLIVION         199 

"  I  promise." 

"  Listen,  then,  to  the  tradition  of  The  Foun- 
tain OF  Oblivion." 

"  Begin." 

rieiuming  was  reclining  on  the  flowery  turf,  at 
the  lady's  feet,  looking  up  with  dreamy  eyes  into 
her  sweet  face,  and  then  into  the  leaves  of  the  lin- 
den-trees overhead. 

"  Gentle  lady  !  Dost  thou  remember  the  linden- 
trees  of  Biilach,  —  those  tall  and  stately  trees, 
with  velvet  down  upon  their  shining  leaves,  and 
rustic  benches  underneath  their  overhanging  eaves  ? 
A  leafy  dwelling,  fit  to  be  the  home  of  elf  or  fairy, 
where  first  I  told  my  love  to  thee,  thou  cold  and 
stately  Hermione  !  A  little  peasant-girl  stood 
near,  and  listened  all  the  while,  with  eyes  of  won- 
der and  delight,  and  an  unconscious  smile,  to  hear 
the  stranger  still  speak  on,  in  accents  deep  yet 
mild,  —  none  else  was  with  us  in  that  hour,  save 
God  and  that  little  child  !  " 

"  Why,  it  is  in  rhyme  !  " 

"  No,  no !  the  rhyme  is  only  in  your  imagination. 
You  promised  not  to  interrupt  me,  and  you  have 
already  snapped  asunder  the  gossamer  threads 
of  as  sweet  a  dream  as  was  ever  spun  from  a  poet's 
brain." 

"  It  certainly  did  rhyme  !  " 

"  This  was  the  reverie  of  the  student  Hierony- 
mus,  as  he  sat  at  midnight  in  a  chamber  of  this 
old  tower,  with  his  hands  clasped  together,  and 
resting  upon  an  open  volume,  which  he  should 
have  been  reading.  His  pale  face  was  raised,  and 
the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated,  as  if  the  spirit-world 


200  HYPERION 

were  open  before  liiiii,  and  some  beauteous  \^sion 
were  standing  there,  and  drawing  the  student's 
soul  through  his  eyes  up  into  heaven,  —  as  the 
evening  sun,  through  parting  summer-elouds,  seems 
to  draw  into  its  bosom  the  vajjors  of  the  earth. 
Oh,  it  was  a  lovely  vision  !  1  can  see  it  before  me 
now ! 

"  Near  the  student  stood  an  antique  bronze 
lamp,  with  strange  figures  carved  upon  it.  It  was 
a  magic  lamp,  which  once  belonged  to  the  Arabian 
astrologer  El  Geber,  in  Spain.  Its  light  was  beau- 
tiful as  the  light  of  stars ;  and,  night  after  night, 
as  the  lonely  wight  sat  alone  and  read  in  this  lofty 
tower,  through  the  mist  and  murk  and  dropping 
rain,  it  streamed  out  into  the  darkness,  and  was 
seen  by  many  wakeful  eyes.  To  the  poor  student 
Hieronymus  it  was  a  wonderful  Aladdin's  Lamp  ; 
for  in  its  flame  a  Divinity  revealed  herself  unto 
him,  and  showed  him  treasures.  Whenever  he 
opened  a  ponderous,  antiquated  tome,  it  seemed  as 
if  some  angel  opened  for  him  the  gates  of  Paradise ; 
and  already  he  was  known  in  the  land  as  Hierony- 
mus the  Learned. 

"  But,  alas  !  he  could  read  no  more.  The  charm 
was  broken.  Hour  after  hour  he  passed  with  his 
hands  clasped  before  him,  and  his  fair  eyes  gazing 
at  vacancy.  What  could  so  disturb  the  studies  of 
this  melancholy  wight  ?  Lady,  he  was  in  love  ! 
Have  you  ever  been  in  love  ?  He  had  seen  the 
face  of  the  beautiful  Ilermione  ;  and  as,  when  we 
have  thoughtlessly  looked  at  the  sun,  our  dazzled 
eyes,  though  closed,  behold  it  still,  so  he  beheld  by 
day  and  by  night  the  radiant  image  of  her  upon 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION         201 

whom  he  had  too  rashly  gazed.  Alas  !  he  was  un- 
happy ;  for  the  proud  Ilermione  disdained  the 
love  of  a  poor  student,  whose  only  wealth  was  a 
magic  lamp.  In  marble  halls,  and  amid  the  gay 
crowd  that  worshipped  her,  she  had  almost  forgot- 
ten that  such  a  being  lived  as  the  student  Hierony- 
mus.  The  adoration  of  his  heart  had  been  to  her 
only  as  the  perfume  of  a  wild-flower  which  she  had 
carelessly  crushed  with  her  foot  in  passing.  But 
he  had  lost  all ;  for  he  had  lost  the  quiet  of  his 
thoughts  ;  and  his  agitated  soul  reflected  only 
broken  and  distorted  images  of  things.  The  world 
laughed  at  the  j^oor  student,  who,  in  his  threadbare 
cassock,  dared  to  lift  his  eyes  to  the  Lady  Her- 
mione,  while  he  sat  alone,  in  his  desolate  chamber, 
and  suffered  in  silence.  He  remembered  many 
things  which  he  would  fain  have  forgotten  ;  but 
which,  if  he  had  forgotten  them,  he  would  have 
wished  again  to  remember.  Such  were  the  linden- 
trees  of  Biilach,  under  whose  pleasant  shades  he 
had  told  his  love  to  Hermione.  This  was  the  scene 
which  he  wished  most  to  forget,  yet  loved  most  to 
remember  ;  and  of  this  he  was  now  dreaming,  with 
his  hands  clasped  upon  his  book,  and  that  music 
in  his  thoughts,  which  you,  lady,  mistook  for 
rhyme. 

"  Suddenly,  with  a  melancholy  clang,  the  convent 
clock  struck  twelve.  It  roused  the  student  Hieron- 
ymus  from  his  dream,  and  rang  in  his  ears,  like 
che  iron  hoofs  of  the  steeds  of  Time.  The  magic 
hour  had  come,  when  the  Divinity  of  the  lamp 
most  willingly  revealed  herself  to  her  votary.  The 
bronze  figures  seemed  alive  ;   a  white  cloud  rose 


202  II YPERION 

from  the  flame  and  spread  itself  through  the  cham- 
ber ;  the  four  walls  dilated  into  magnificent  cloud- 
vistas  ;  a  fragrance,  as  of  wild-flowers,  filled  the 
air ;  and  a  dreamy  music,  like  distant,  sweet-chim- 
ing bells,  announced  the  api)roach  of  the  midnight 
Divinity.  Through  his  streaming  tears  the  heart- 
broken student  beheld  her  once  more  descending  a 
pass  in  the  snowy  cloud-mountains,  as,  at  evening, 
the  dewy  Hesperus  comes  from  the  bosom  of  the 
mist,  and  assumes  his  station  in  the  sky.  At  her 
approach,  his  spirit  grew  more  calm  ;  for  her  pres- 
ence was,  to  his  feverish  heart,  like  a  tropical 
night,  —  beautiful  and  soothing  and  invigorating. 
At  length  she  stood  before  him,  revealed  in  all  her 
beauty  ;  and  he  comprehended  the  visible  language 
of  her  sweet  but  silent  lips,  which  seemed  to  say, 
'  What  would  the  student  Ilieronymus  to-night  ? ' 
—  '  Peace  !  '  he  answered,  raising  his  clasped 
hands,  and  smiling  through  his  tears.  '  The  student 
Hieronymus  imploreth  peace  !  '  — '  Then  go,'  said 
the  spirit,  '  go  to  the  Fountain  of  Oblivion  in  the 
deepest  solitude  of  the  Black  Forest,  and  cast  this 
scroll  into  its  waters  ;  and  thou  shalt  be  at  peace 
once  more.'  Hiei'onymus  opened  his  arms  to  em- 
brace the  Divinity,  for  her  countenance  assumed 
the  features  of  Hermione  ;  but  she  vanished  away  ; 
the  music  ceased  ;  the  gorgeous  cloud-land  sank 
and  fell  asunder  ;  and  the  student  was  alone  within 
the  four  bare  walls  of  his  chamber.  As  he  bowed 
his  head  downward,  his  eye  fell  upon  a  parchment 
scroll,  which  was  lying  beside  the  lamp.  Upon  it 
was  written  only  the  name  of  Hermione  ! 

"  The  next  morning  Hieronymus  put  the  scroll 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION         203 

into  his  bosom,  and  went  his  way  in  search  of  the 
Fountain  of  Oblivion.  A  few  days  brought  him 
to  the  skirts  of  the  Black  Forest.  He  entei-ed,  not 
without  a  feeling  of  dread,  that  land  of  shadows  ; 
and  jjassed  onward,  under  melancholy  pines  and 
uedars,  whose  branches  grew  abroad  and  mingled 
together,  and,  as  they  swayed  up  and  down,  filled 
the  air  with  solemn  twilight  and  a  sound  of  sorrow. 
As  he  advanced  into  the  forest,  the  waving  moss 
hung,  like  curtains,  from  the  branches  overhead, 
and  more  and  more  shut  out  the  light  of  heaven  ; 
and  he  knew  that  the  Fountain  of  Oblivion  was 
not  far  off.  Even  then  the  sound  of  falling  waters 
was  mingling  with  the  roar  of  the  pines  above 
him ;  and  erelong  he  came  to  a  river,  moving  in 
solemn  majesty  through  the  forest,  and  falling  with 
a  dull,  leaden  sound  into  a  motionless  and  stagnant 
lake,  above  which  the  branches  of  the  forest  met 
and  mingled,  forming  perpetual  night.  This  was 
the  Fountain  of  Oblivion. 

"  Upon  its  brink  the  student  paused,  and  gazed 
into  the  dark  waters  with  a  steadfast  look.  They 
were  limpid  waters,  dark  with  shadows  only.  And 
as  he  gazed,  he  beheld,  far  down  in  their  silent 
depths,  dim  and  ill-defined  outlines,  wavering  to 
and  fro,  like  the  folds  of  a  white  garment  in  the 
twilight.  Then  more  distinct  and  permanent 
shapes  arose,  —  shapes  familiar  to  his  mind,  yet 
forgotten  and  remembered  again,  as  the  fragments 
of  a  dream ;  till  at  length,  far,  far  below  him,  he 
beheld  the  great  City  of  the  Past,  with  silent 
marble  streets,  and  moss-grown  walls,  and  spires 
uprising  with  a  wave-like,  flickering  motion. 


204  HYPERION 

"  And  amid  the  crowd  that  thronged  those 
streets,  he  behekl  faces  once  familiar  and  dear  to 
hiui,  and  heai'd  sorrowful,  sweet  voices  singing, 
Oh,  forget  us  not !  forget  us  not  I  and  then  the  dis- 
tant, mournful  sound  of  funeral  bells,  that  were 
tolling  below,  in  the  City  of  the  Past.  But  in  the 
gardens  of  that  city  there  were  children  playing, 
and  among  them  one  who  wore  his  features,  as 
they  had  been  in  childhood.  He  was  leading  a 
little  girl  by  the  hand,  and  caressed  her  often,  and 
adorned  her  with  flowers.  Then,  like  a  dream,  the 
scene  changed,  and  the  boy  had  grown  older,  and 
stood  alone,  gazing  into  the  sky  ;  and  as  he  gazed, 
his  countenance  changed  again,  and  Hieronymus 
beheld  him,  as  if  it  had  been  his  own  image  in  the 
clear  water;  and  before  him  stood  a  beauteous 
maiden,  whose  face  was  like  the  face  of  Hermione, 
and  he  feared  lest  the  scroll  had  fallen  into  the 
water,  as  he  bent  over  it. 

"  Starting,  as  from  a  dream,  he  put  his  hand 
into  his  bosom,  and  breathed  freely  again,  when  he 
found  the  scroll  still  there.  He  drew  it  forth,  and 
read  the  blessed  name  of  Hermione,  and  the  city 
beneath  him  vanished  away,  and  the  air  grew  fra- 
grant as  with  the  breath  of  May-flowers,  and  a 
light  streamed  through  the  shadowy  forest,  and 
gleamed  upon  the  lake ;  and  the  student  Hierony- 
mus pressed  the  dear  name  to  his  lips,  and  ex- 
claimed, with  streaming  ejes :  '  Oh,  scorn  me  as 
thou  wilt,  still,  still  will  I  love  thee ;  and  thy  name 
shall  irradiate  the  gloom  of  my  life,  and  make  the 
waters  of  Oblivion  smile  ! '  And  the  name  was 
no  longer  Hermione,  but  was  changed  to  Mary; 


A    TALK  ON   THE  STAIRS  205 

and  the    student   Ilieronynius  —  is  lying  at  your 
feet !     O  gentle  Lady, 

"  I  did  hear  you  talk 
Far  above  sing'iiig' ;  after  you  were  gone, 
I  gi-ew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 
What  stirred  it  so !     Alas !  I  found  it  love." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

,       A   TALK   ON   THE    STAIRS. 

No !  I  will  not  describe  that  scene ;  nor  how 
pale  the  stately  lady  sat  on  the  border  of  the 
green,  sunny  meadow !  The  hearts  of  some  women 
tremble  like  leaves  at  every  breath  of  love  which 
reaches  them,  and  then  are  still  again.  Others, 
like  the  ocean,  are  moved  only  by  the  breath  of  a 
storm,  and  not  so  easily  lulled  to  rest.  And  such 
was  the  proud  heart  of  Mary  Ashburton.  It  had 
remained  unmoved  by  the  presence  of  this  stran- 
ger ;  and  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  and  his  voice 
excited  in  it  no  emotion.  He  had  deceived  him- 
self !  Silently  they  walked  homeward  through  the 
green  meadow.  The  very  sunshine  was  sad  ;  and 
the  rising  wind,  through  the  old  ruin  above  them, 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  a  hollow  laugh ! 

Flemming  went  straight  to  his  chamber.  On 
the  way,  he  passed  the  walnut-trees  under  which 
he  had  first  seen  the  face  of  Mary  Ashburton. 
Involuntarily  he  closed  his  eyes.  They  were  full 
of  tears.  Oh,  there  are  places  in  this  fair  world 
which  we  never  wish  to  see  again,  however  dear 
they  may  be  to  us  !     The  towers  of  the  old  Fran- 


206  HYPERION 

cisean  convent  never  looked  so  gloomily  as  tlien, 
though  tJie  bright  summer  sun  was  shining  full 
upon  them. 

In  his  chamber  he  found  Berkley.  He  was 
looking  out  of  the  window,  whistling. 

"  This  evening  I  leave  Interlachen  forever," 
said  Flemming,  rather  abruptly.     Berkley  stared. 

"  Indeed !  Pray  what  is  the  matter  ?  You  look 
as  pale  as  a  ghost !  " 

"  And  have  good  reason  to  look  pale,"  replied 
Flemming  bitterly.  "  Hoffmann  says,  in  one  of 
his  note-books,  that  on  the  eleventh  of  March,  at 
half  past  eight  o'clock,  precisely,  he  was  an  ass. 
That  is  what  I  was  this  morning,  at  half  past  ten 
o'clock,  precisely,  and  am  now,  and  I  suppose  al- 
ways shall  be." 

He  tried  to  laugh,  but  could  not.  He  then  re- 
lated to  Berkley  the  whole  story,  from  beginning 
to  end. 

"  This  is  a  miserable  piece  of  business !  "  ex- 
claimed Berkley,  when  he  had  finished.  "  Strange 
enough !  And  yet  I  have  long  ceased  to  marvel 
at  the  caprices  of  women.  Did  not  Pan  captivate 
the  chaste  Diana?  Did  not  Titania  love  Nick 
Bottom  with  his  ass's  head?  Do  you  think  that 
maidens'  eyes  are  no  longer  touched  with  the  juice 
of  love-in-idleness  ?  Take  my  word  for  it,  she  is 
in  love  with  somebody  else.  There  must  be  some 
reason  for  this.  No ;  women  never  have  any 
reasons,  except  their  will.  But  never  mind.  Keep 
a  stout  heart.  Care  killed  a  cat.  After  all,  — 
what  is  she  ?     Who  is  she  ?     Only  a  "  — 

"  Hush  !  hush !  "  exclaimed  Flemming,  in  great 


A    TALK   ON   THE   STAIRS  207 

excitement.  "  Not  one  word  more,  I  beseech  you. 
Do  not  think  to  console  me  by  depreciating  her. 
She  is  very  dear  to  me  still ;  a  beautiful,  high- 
minded,  noble  woman." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Berkley  ;  "  that  is  the  way  with 
you  all,  you  young  men.  You  see  a  sweet  face, 
or  a  something,  you  know  not  what,  and  flickering 
reason  says.  Good  night ;  amen  to  common  sense ! 
The  imagination  invests  the  beloved  object  with  a 
thousand  superlative  charms ;  adorns  her  with  all 
the  purple  and  fine  linen,  all  the  rich  apparel  and 
furniture,  of  human  nature.  I  did  the  same  when 
I  was  young.  I  was  once  as  desjierately  in  love  as 
you  are  now  ;  and  went  through  all  the 

"  Delicious  deaths,  soft  exhalations 
Of  soul,  dear  and  divine  annihilations ; 
A  thousand  unknown  rites 
Of  joys,  and  rarefied  delights. 

I  adored  and  was  rejected.  '  You  are  in  love  with 
certain  attributes,'  said  the  lady.  '  Damn  your  at- 
tributes, Madam,'  said  I ;  '  I  know  nothing  about 
attributes.'  — '  Sir,'  said  she,  with  dignity,  '  you 
have  been  drinking.'  —  So  we  parted.  She  was 
married  afterwards  to  another,  who  knew  some- 
thing about  attributes,  I  suppose.  I  have  seen  her 
once  since,  and  only  once.  She  had  a  baby  in  a 
yellow  gown.  I  hate  a  baby  in  a  yellow  gown. 
How  glad  I  am  she  did  not  marry  me  !  One  of 
these  days,  you  will  be  glad  you  have  been  rejected. 
Take  my  word  for  it." 

"  All  that  does  not  prevent  my  lot  from  being  a 
very  melancholy  one !  "  said  Flemming  sadl3^ 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  lot,"  cried  Berkley,  laugh- 


208  HYPERION 

iiig,  "  so  long  as  you  don't  get  Lot's  wife.  If  the 
cucumber  is  bitter,  throw  it  away,  as  the  philoso- 
pher Marcus  Antoninus  says,  in  his  Meditations. 
Foi'get  her,  and  all  will  be  as  if  you  had  not  known 
her." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  her,"  replied  Flemming, 
rather  solemnly.  "  Not  my  pride,  but  my  affec- 
tions are  wounded  ;  and  the  wound  is  too  deep 
ever  to  heal.  I  shall  carry  it  with  me  always.  I 
enter  no  more  into  the  world,  but  will  dwell  only 
in  the  world  of  my  own  thoughts.  All  great  and 
unusual  occurrences,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow,  lift 
us  above  this  earth ;  and  we  should  do  well  always 
to  preserve  this  elevation.  Hitherto  I  have  not 
done  so.  But  now  I  will  no  more  descend ;  I  will 
sit  apart  and  above  the  world,  with  my  mournful, 
yet  holy  thoughts." 

"  Whew  !  You  had  better  go  into  society  ;  the 
whirl  and  delirium  will  cure  you  in  a  week.  If 
you  find  a  lady  who  pleases  you  very  much,  and 
you  wish  to  marry  her,  and  she  will  not  listen  to 
such  a  horrid  thing,  I  see  but  one  remedy,  which  is 
to  find  another,  who  pleases  you  more,  and  who 
will  listen  to  it." 

"  No,  my  friend ;  you  do  not  understand  my 
character,"  said  Flemming,  shaking  his  head.  "  I 
love  this  woman  with  a  deep  and  lasting  affection. 
I  shall  never  cease  to  love  her.  This  may  be  mad- 
ness in  me  ;  but  so  it  is.  Alas  and  alas  !  Para- 
celsus of  old  wasted  life  in  tx-ying  to  discover  its 
elixir,  which,  after  all,  turned  out  to  be  alcohol ; 
and  instead  of  being  made  immortal  upon  earth, 
he  died  drunk  on  the  floor  of  a  tavern.     The  like 


A    TALK   ON  THE   STAIRS  209 

happens  to  many  of  us.  We  waste  our  best  years 
in  distilling  the  sweetest  flowers  of  life  into  love- 
potions,  which  after  all  do  not  immortalize,  but 
only  intoxicate  us.  By  Heaven  !  we  are  all  of  us 
mad." 

"  But  are  you  sure  the  case  is  utterly  hope» 
less?" 

''  Utterly  !  utterly !  " 

"  And  yet  I  perceive  you  have  not  laid  aside  all 
hope.  You  still  flatter  yourself  that  the  lady's 
heart  may  change.  The  great  secret  of  happiness 
consists  not  in  enjoying,  but  in  renouncing.  But 
it  is  hard,  very  hard.  Hope  has  as  many  lives  as 
a  cat  or  a  king.  I  dare  say  you  have  heard  the 
old  proverb,  '  The  king  never  dies.'  But  perhaps 
you  have  never  heard  that,  at  the  court  of  Naples, 
when  the  dead  body  of  a  monarch  lies  in  state,  his 
dinner  is  carried  up  to  him  as  usual,  and  the  court 
physician  tastes  it,  to  see  that  it  be  not  poisoned, 
and  then  the  servants  bear  it  out  again,  saying, 
'The  king  does  not  dine  to-day.'  Hope  in  our 
souls  is  king ;  and  we  also  say,  '  The  king  never 
dies.'  Even  when  in  reality  he  lies  dead  within 
us,  in  solemn  mockeiy  we  offer  him  his  accustomed 
food,  but  are  constrained  to  say,  '  The  king  does 
not  dine  to-day.'  It  must  be  an  evil  day,  indeed, 
when  a  king  of  Naples  has  no  heart  for  his  dinner ! 
but  you  yourself  are  a  proof  that  the  king  never 
dies.  You  are  feeding  your  king,  although  you  say 
he  is  dead." 

"  To  show  you  that  I  do  not  wish  to  cherish 
hope,"  replied  Flemming,  "■  I  shall  leave  Inter- 
lachen  to-morrow  morning.  I  am  going  to  the 
Tyrol." 


210  HYPERION 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Berkley ;  "  there  is  nothing 
so  good  for  sorrow  as  rapid  motion  in  the  open  air., 
I  shall  go  with  you ;  though  probably  your  conver- 
sation will  not  be  very  various ;  nothing  but  Ed- 
ward and  Kunigunde." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  Go  to  Berlin,  and  you  will  find  out.  However, 
jesting  apart,  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  cheer  you,  and 
make  you  forget  the  Dark  Ladle,  and  this  imto- 
ward  accident." 

"  Accident !  "  said  Flemming.  "  This  is  no  ac- 
cident, but  God's  providence,  which  brought  us  to- 
gether, to  punish  me  for  my  sins." 

"  Oh,  my  friend,"  interrupted  Berkley,  "  if  you 
see  the  finger  of  Providence  so  distinctly  in  every 
act  of  your  life,  you  will  end  by  thinking  your- 
self an  Apostle  and  Envoy  Extraordinary.  I  see 
nothing  so  very  uncommon  in  what  has  happened 
to  you." 

"  What !  not  when  our  souls  are  so  akin  to  each 
other  ?  when  we  seemed  so  formed  to  be  together, 
—  to  be  one  ?  " 

"  I  have  often  observed,"  replied  Berkley  coldly, 
"  that  those  who  are  of  kindred  soids  rarely  wed 
together ;  almost  as  rarely  as  those  who  are  akin 
by  blood.  Therefore,  mad  lover,  do  not  think  to 
persuade  thyself  and  thy  scornful  lady  that  you 
have  kindred  souls  ;  but  rather  the  contrary,  — • 
that  you  are  much  vmlike,  and  each  wanting  in 
those  qualities  which  most  mark  and  distinguish 
the  other.  Trust  me,  thy  courtship  will  then  be 
more  prosperous.  But  good  morning.  I  must 
prepare  for  this  sudden  journey." 


A    TALK  ON  THE  STAIRS  211 

On  the  following  morning,  rigmming  and  Berk- 
ley started  on  their  way  to  Innsbruck,  like  Huon 
of  Bordeaux  and  Scherasmin  on  their  way  to 
Babylon.  Berkley's  self-assumed  duty  was  to  con- 
sole his  companion ;  a  duty  which  he  performed 
like  an  ancient  Spanish  Despenadora,  whose  busi- 
ness was  to  attend  the  sick,  and  put  her  elbow  into 
the  stomach  of  the  dying,  to  shorten  their  agony. 


BOOK  THE  FOURTH 

Mortal,  they  softly  say, 

Peace  to  thy  heart  I 
We  too,  yes,  mortal, 

Have  been  as  tliou  art ; 
Hope-lifted,  doubt-depressed, 

Seeing  in  part. 
Tried,  troubled,  tempted, 

Sustained,  —  as  thou  art. 


Carolinb  Southex 


CHAPTER  I. 

A    MISERERE. 


In  the  Orlando  Innamorato,  Malagigi,  the 
necromancer,  puts  all  the  company  to  sleep  by  read- 
ins:  to  them  from  a  book.  Some  books  have  this 
power  of  themselves  and  need  no  necromancer. 
Fearing,  Gentle  Reader,  that  mine  may  be  of  this 
kind,  I  have  provided  these  introductory  chapters 
from  time  to  time,  like  stalls  or  Misereres  in  a 
church,  with  flowery  canopies  and  poppy-heads 
over  them,  where  thou  mayest  sit  down  and  sleep. 

No,  —  the  figure  is  not  a  bad  one.     This  book^ 
does  somewhat  resemble  a  minster,  in  the  Koman- 
esque  style,  with  pinnacles,  and  flying  buttresses, 
and  roofs, 

Gargoyled  -wnth  greyhouiicls,  and  with  many  lions 
Made  of  fiue  gold,  with  divers  sundry  dragons. 


A   MISERERE  213 

You  step  into  its  shade  and  coolness  out  of  the  hot 
streets  of  life  ;  a  mysterious  light  streams  through 
the  painted  glass  of  the  marigold  windows,  stain-  \  . 
ing  the  cusps  and  crumpled  leaves  of  the  window-  I  ^/^ 
shafts,  and  the  cherubs  and  holy-water-stoups  be- 
low. Here  and  there  is  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
Mary ;  and  other  images,  "  in  divers  vestures,^ 
called  weepers,  stand  in  housings  made  about  the 
tomb  ;  "  and  above  all  swells  the  vast  dome  of 
heaven,  with  its  star-mouldings,  and  the  flaming 
constellations,  like  the  mosaics  in  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's.  Have  you  not  heard  funeral  psalms  fi-om 
the  chantry  ?  Have  you  not  heard  the  sound  of 
church-bells,  as  I  promised,  —  mysterious  sounds 
from  the  Past  and  Future,  as  from  the  belfries  out- 
side the  cathedral,  —  even  such  a  mournful,  mel- 
low, watery  peal  of  bells,  as  is  heard  sometimes  at 
sea,  from  cities  afar  off  below  the  horizon  ? 

I  know  not  how  this  Romanesque,  and  at  times 
flamboyant,  style  of  architecture  may  please  the 
critics.  They  may  wish,  perhaps,  that  I  had 
omitted  some  of  my  many  ornaments,  my  ara- 
besques, and  roses,  and  fantastic  spouts,  and  Holy- 
Roods  and  Galilee-steeples.  But  would  it  then 
have  been  Romanesque? 

But  perhaps,  Gentle  Reader,  thou  art  one  of 
those  who  think  the  days  of  romance  gone  forever. 
Believe  it  not !  Oh,  believe  it  not !  Thou  hast 
at  this  moment  in  thy  heart  as  sweet  a  romance 
as  was  ever  written.  Thou  art  not  less  a  woman, 
because  thou  dost  not  sit  aloft  in  a  tower,  with  a 
tassel-gentle  on  thy  wrist.  Thou  art  not  less  a 
man,  because  thou  wearest  no  hauberk,  nor  mail- 


214  jjypERiON 

sark,  and  goest  not  on  horseback  after  foolish  ad- 
ventures. Every  one  has  a  romance  in  his  own 
heart.  All  that  has  blessed  or  awed  the  world  lies 
there ;  and 

The  oracle  within  him,  that  which  lives, 

He  must  invoke  and  question,  —  not  dead  books, 

Not  ordinances,  not  mould-rotted  papers. 

Sooner  or  later,  some  passages  of  every  one's 
romance  must  be  written,  either  in  words  or  ac- 
tions. They  will  proclaim  the  truth,  for  Truth  is 
thought  which  has  assumed  its  appropriate  gar- 
ments, either  of  words  or  actions  ;  while  Falsehood 
is  thought  which,  disguised  in  words  or  actions  not 
its  own,  comes  before  the  blind  old  w^orld,  as 
Jacob  came  before  the  patriarch  Isaac,  clothed 
in  the  goodly  raiment  of  his  brother  Esau.  And 
the  world,  like  the  patriarch,  is  often  deceived  ; 
for  though  the  voice  is  Jacob's  voice,  yet  the 
hands  are  the  hands  of  Esau,  and  the  False  takes 
away  the  birthright  and  the  blessing  from  the 
True.  Hence  it  is  that  the  world  so  often  lifts  up 
its  voice  and  weeps. 

That  very  pleasing  and  fanciful  Chinese  ro- 
mance, the  Shadow  in  the  Water,  ends  with  the 
hero's  marrying  both  the  heroines.  I  hope  my 
gentle  reader  feels  curious  to  know  the  end  of  this 
romance,  which  is  a  shadow  upon  the  earth,  and 
see  whether  there  be  any  marriage  at  all  in  it. 

That  is  the  very  point  I  am  now  thinking  of,  as 
I  sit  here  at  my  pleasant  chamber-window,  and  en- 
joy the  balmy  air  of  a  bright  summer  morning, 
and  watch  the  motions  of  the  golden  robin  that 
sits  on  its  swinging  nest  on  the  outermost  pendu' 


A   MISERERE  216 

lous  branch  of  yonder  elm.  The  broad  meadows 
and  the  steel-blue  river  remind  me  of  the  meadows 
of  Unterseen  and  the  river  Aar  ;  and  beyond  them 
rise  magnificent  snow-white  clouds,  piled  up  like 
Alps.  Thus  the  shades  of  Washing-ton  and  Wil- 
liam Tell  seem  to  walk  together  on  these  Elysian 
Fields,  for  it  was  here  that,  in  days  long  gone,  our 
great  patriot  dwelt ;  and  yonder  clouds  so  much 
resemble  the  snowy  Alps,  that  they  remind  me 
irresistibly  of  the  Swiss.  Noble  examples  of  a 
high  purpose  and  a  fixed  will !  Do  they  not  move, 
Hyperion^like,  on  high  ?  Were  they  not,  likewise, 
sons  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

Nothing  can  be  more  lovely  than  these  summer 
mornings,  nor  than  the  southern  window  at  which 
I  sit  and  write,  in  this  old  mansion,  which  is  like 
an  Italian  villa.  But  oh,  this  lassitude,  —  this  wea- 
riness, —  when  all  around  me  is  so  bright !  I  have 
this  morning  a  singular  longing  for  flowers,  a  wish 
to  stroll  among  the  roses  and  carnations,  and  inhale 
their  breath,  as  if  it  would  revive  me.  I  wish  I 
knew  the  man  who  called  flowers  "  the  fugitive  po- 
etry of  Nature."  From  this  distance,  from  these 
scholastic  shades,  —  from  this  leafy,  blossoming, 
and  beautiful  Cambridge,  —  I  stretch  forth  my 
hand  to  grasp  his,  as  the  hand  of  a  poet !  —  Yes  ; 
this  morning  I  would  rather  stroll  with  him  among 
the  gay  flowers,  than  sit  here  and  write.  I  feel  so 
weary ! 

Old  men  with  their  staves,  says  the  Spanish 
poet,  are  ever  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  grave. 
But  I  am  not  old.  The  Spanish  poet  might  have 
included  the  young  also.  —  No  matter  !     Courage, 


216  HYPERION 

and  forward  !     The  romance  must  be  finished,  and 
finished  soon. 

O  thou  poor  authorliug  !  Reach  a  little  deeper 
into  the  human  heart !  Touch  those  strings,  — 
touch  those  deeper  strings,  and  more  boldly,  or 
the  notes  will  die  away  like  whispers,  and  no  ear 
shall  hear  them,  save  thine  own  !  And,  to  cheer 
thy  solitary  labor,  remember  that  the  secret  stud- 
ies of  an  author  are  the  sunken  piers  upon  which 
is  to  rest  the  bridge  of  his  fame,  spanning  the 
dark  waters  of  Oblivion.  They  are  out  of  sight ; 
but  without  them  no  superstructure  can  stand  se- 


cure 


And  now.  Reader,  since  the  sermon  is  over,  and 
we  are  still  sitting  here  in  this  Miserere,  let  us 
read  aloud  a  page  from  the  old  parchment  manu- 
script on  the  lettern  before  us ;  let  us  sing  it 
through  these  dusky  aisles,  like  a  Gregorian  chant, 
and  startle  the  sleeping  congregation  ! 

"  I  have  read  of  the  great  river  Euripus,  which 
ebbeth  and  floweth  seven  times  a  day,  and  with 
such  violence  that  it  carrieth  ships  upon  it  with  full 
sail  directly  against  the  wind.  Seven  times  in  an 
hour  ebbeth  and  floweth  rash  opinion  in  the  tor- 
rent of  indiscreet  and  troublesome  apprehensions, 
carrying  critic  calumny  and  squint  -  eyed  detrac- 
tion mainly  against  the  wind  of  wisdom  and  judg- 
ment." 

In  secula  seculorum !     Amen  I 


CURFEW  BELLS  217 

CHAPTER  n. 
CURFEW   BELLS. 

"Welcome,  Disappointment !  Thy  hand  is  cold 
and  hard,  but  it  is  the  hand  of  a  friend  !  Thy 
voice  is  stern  and  harsh,  but  it  is  the  voice  of  a 
friend !  Oh,  there  is  something  sublime  in  calm 
endurance,  something  sublime  in  the  resolute,  fixed 
purpose  of  suffering  without  complaining,  which 
makes  disappointment  oftentimes  better  than  suc- 
cess ! 

The  Emperor  Isaac  Angelus  made  a  treaty  with 
Saladin,  and  tried  to  purchase  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
with  gold.  Richard  Lion-heart  scorned  such  alli- 
ance, and  sought  to  recover  it  by  battle.  Thus  do 
weak  minds  make  treaties  with  the  passions  they 
cannot  overcome,  and  try  to  purchase  happiness  at 
the  expense  of  prinpiple.  But  the  resolute  will  of 
a  strong  man  scorns  such  means,  and  struggles 
nobly  with  his  foe  to  achieve  great  deeds.  There- 
fore, whosoever  thou  art  that  sufferest,  try  not  to 
dissipate  thy  sorrow  by  the  breath  of  the  world, 
nor  drown  its  voice  in  thoughtless  merriment.  It 
is  a  treacherous  peace  that  is  purchased  by  indul- 
gence. Rather  take  this  sorrow  to  thy  heart,  and 
make  it  a  part  of  thee,  and  it  shall  nourish  thee  till 
thou  art  strong  again. 

The  shadows  of  the  mind  are  like  those  of  the 
body.  In  the  morning  of  life,  they  all  lie  behind 
us  ;  at  noon,  we  trample  them  under  foot ;  and  in 
the  evening,  they  stretch  long,  broad,  and  deepen- 
ing before  us.    Are  not,  then,  the  sorrows  of  child- 


218  HYPERION 

hood  as  dark  as  those  of  age  ?  Are  not  the  morn- 
ing- shadows  of  life  an  deep  and  broad  as  those  of 
its  evening?  Yes;  Lut  morning  shadows  soon  fade 
away,  while  those  of  evening  reach  forward  into 
the  night,  and  mingle  with  the  coming  darkness. 
Man  is  begotten  in  delight  and  born  in  pain  ;  and 
in  these  are  the  rapture  and  labor  of  his  life  fore- 
shadowed from  the  beginning.  But  the  life  of  man 
upon  this  fair  earth  is  made  up,  for  the  most  j^art, 
of  little  pains  and  little  pleasures.  The  great  won- 
der-flowers bloom  but  once  in  a  lifetime. 

A  week  had  already  elapsed  since  the  events  re- 
corded in  the  last  chapter.  Paul  Flemming  went 
his  way,  a  melancholy  man,  "  drinking  the  sweet 
wormwood  of  his  sorrow."  He  did  not  rail  at 
Providence  and  call  it  fate,  but  suffered  and  was 
silent.  It  is  a  beautiful  trait  in  the  lover's  char- 
acter, that  he  thinks  no  evil  of  the  object  loved. 
What  he  suffered  was  no  swift  storm  of  feeling, 
that  passes  away  with  a  noise,  and  leaves  the  heart 
clearer ;  but  a  dark  phantom  had  risen  up  in  the 
clear  night,  and,  like  that  of  Adamastor,  hid  the 
stars  ;  and  if  it  ever  vanished  away  for  a  season, 
still  the  deep  sound  of  the  moaning  main  would  be 
heard  afar,  througli  many  a  dark  and  lonely  hoiu'. 
And  thus  he  journeyed  on,  wrapped  in  desponding 
gloom,  and  mainly  heedless  of  all  things  around 
him.  His  mind  was  distempered.  That  one  face 
was  always  before  him  ;  that  one  voice  was  forever 
saying :  — 

"  You  are  not  the  Magician." 

Painful  indeed  it  is  to  be  misunderstood  and  un« 
dervalued  by  those  we  love.     But  this,  too,  in  our 


CURFEW  BELLS  219 

life,  must  we  learn  to  bear  without  a  murmur ;  for 
it  is  a  tale  often  repeated. 

There  are  persons  in  this  world  to  whom  all  local 
associations  are  naught.  The  genius  of  the  place 
speaks  not  to  them.  Even  on  battle-fields,  where 
the  voice  of  this  genius  is  loudest,  they  hear  only 
the  sound  of  their  own  voices  ;  they  meet  there 
only  their  own  dull  and  pedantic  thoughts,  as  the 
old  grammarian  Brunetto  Latini  met  on  the  plain 
of  Roncesvalles  a  poor  student  riding  on  a  bay 
mide.  This  was  not  always  the  case  with  Paul 
riemming,  but  it  had  become  so  now.  He  felt  no 
interest  in  the  scenery  around  him.  He  hardly 
looked  at  it.  Even  the  difficult  mountain-passes, 
where,  from  his  rocky  eyrie,  the  eagle-eyed  Tyro- 
lese  peasant  had  watched  his  foe,  and  the  roaring, 
turbid  torrent  underneath,  which  had  swallowed  up 
the  bloody  corse,  that  fell  from  the  rocks  like  a 
crushed  worm,  awakened  no  lively  emotion  in  his 
breast.  AU  around  him  seemed  dreamy  and  vague ; 
all  within  dim,  as  in  a  sun's  eclipse.  As  the  moon, 
whether  visible  or  invisible,  has  power  over  the 
tides  of  the  ocean,  so  the  face  of  that  lady,  whether 
present  or  absent,  had  power  over  the  tides  of  his 
sold,  both  by  day  and  night,  both  waking  and 
sleei^ing.  In  every  pale  face  and  dark  eye  he  saw 
a  resemblance  to  her ;  and  what  the  day  denied 
him  in  reality  the  night  gave  him  in  dreams. 

"  This  is  a  strange,  fantastic  world,"  said  Berk- 
ley, after  a  very  long  silence,  during  which  the  two 
travellers  had  been  sitting  each  in  his  corner  of  the 
travelling-carriage,  wrapped  in  his  own  reflections. 
"  A  very  strange,  fantastic  world,  where  each  one 


220  HYPERION 

pursues  his  own  golden  bubble,  and  laughs  at  his 
neighbor  for  doing  the  same.  I  have  been  think- 
ing how  a  moral  Linnaeus  would  classify  our  race. 
I  think  he  would  divide  it,  —  not  as  Lord  Byron 
did,  into  two  great  classes,  the  bores  and  those  who 
are  bored,  —  but  into  three,  namely,  Happy  Men, 
Lucky  Dogs,  and  Miserable  Wretches.  This  is 
more  true  and  philosophical,  though  perhaps  not 
quite  so  comprehensive.  He  is  the  Happy  Man 
who,  blessed  with  modest  ease,  a  wife  and  children, 
sits  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  his  family,  and 
knows  no  other  ambition  than  that  of  making 
those  around  him  happy.  But  the  Lucky  Dog  is 
he  who,  free  from  all  domestic  cares,  saunters  up 
and  dowTi  his  room,  in  morning  gown  and  slippers ; 
drums  on  the  window,  of  a  rainy  day ;  and,  as  he 
stirs  his  evening  fire,  snaps  his  fingers  at  the  world, 
and  says,  '  I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or 
bad,  to  provide  for.'  I  had  a  friend  who  is  now  no 
more.     He  was  taken  away  in  the  bloom  of  life,  by 

a  very  rapid widow.    He  was  by  birth  and  by 

profession  a  beau,  —  born  with  a  quizzing-glass  and 
a  cane.  Cock  of  the  walk,  he  flapped  his  wings, 
and  crowed  among  the  feathered  tribe.  But,  alas ! 
a  fair,  white  partlet  has  torn  his  crest  out,  and  he 
shall  crow  no  more.  In  the  evening  he  rocks  the 
cradle,  and  gets  up  in  the  night  when  the  child  cries. 
Like  a  Goth  of  the  Dark  Ages,  he  consults  his  wife 
on  all  mighty  mattei's,  and  looks  upon  her  as  a  be- 
ing of  more  than  human  goodness  and  wisdom.  In 
short,  the  women  all  say  he  is  a  very  domestic  man, 
and  makes  a  good  husband ;  which,  under  the  rose, 
is  only  a  more  polite  way  of   saying  he  is  hen- 


CURFEW  BELLS  221 

pecked.  He  is  a  Happy  Man.  I  have  another 
dear  friend,  who  is  a  sexagenary  bachelor.  He  has 
one  of  those  well-oiled  dispositions  which  turn  upon 
the  hinges  of  the  world  without  creaking.  The 
heyday  of  life  is  over  with  him,  but  his  old  age  is 
sunny  and  chirping,  and  a  merry  heart  still  nestles 
in  his  tottering  frame,  like  a  swallow  that  builds  in 
a  tumble-down  chimney.  He  is  a  professed  Squire 
of  Dames.  The  rustle  of  a  silk  gown  is  music  to 
his  ears,  and  his  imagination  is  continually  lantern- 
led  by  some  will-with-a-wisp  in  the  shape  of  a 
lady's  stomacher.  In  his  devotion  to  the  fair  sex 
—  the  muslin,  as  he  calls  it  —  he  is  the  gentle 
flower  of  chivalry.  It  is  amusing  to  see  how  quick 
he  strikes  into  the  scent  of  a  lady's  handkerchief. 
When  once  fairly  in  pursuit,  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  throwing  him  off.  His  heart  looks  out  at  his 
eye ;  and  his  inward  delight  tingles  down  to  the 
tail  of  his  coat.  He  loves  to  bask  in  the  sunshine 
of  a  smile  ;  when  he  can  breathe  the  sweet  at- 
mosphere of  kid  gloves  and  cambric  handker- 
chiefs, his  soul  is  in  its  element,  and  his  supreme 
delight  is  to  pass  the  morning,  to  use  his  own 
quaint  language,  in  making  dodging  calls,  and 
wriggling  round  among  the  ladies  !  He  is  a  Lucky 
Dog." 

"  And  as  a  specimen  of  the  class  of  Miserable 
AVretches,  I  suppose  you  will  take  me,"  said  Flem- 
ming,  making  an  effort  to  enter  into  his  friend's 
humor.  "  Certainly  I  am  wretched  enough.  You 
may  make  me  the  stuffed  bear,  —  the  specimen  of 
this  class." 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Berkley ;  "  you  are  not 


222  HYPERION 

reduced  so  low.  He  only  is  utterly  wretched  who 
is  the  slave  of  his  own  passions,  or  those  of  others. 
This,  I  trust,  will  never  be  your  condition.  ^^  hy 
so  wan  and  pale,  fond  lover?  Do  yo\x  remember 
Sir  John  Suckling's  song  ? 

"  Why  so  wan  and  pale,  fond  lover  ? 
Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  if  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail  ? 
Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  ? 

"Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 
Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  if  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 
Saying  nothing  do  't  ? 
Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  ? 

*'  Quit,  quit,  for  shame  !   tliis  cannot  move, 
This  cannot  take  her ! 
If  of  herself  she  do  not  love, 
Nothing  will  make  her ! 
The  devil  take  her ! 

How  do  you  like  that  ?  " 

"  To  you  I  say  quit,  quit  for  shame !  "  replied 
Flemming-.  "  Why  quote  the  songs  of  that  witty 
and  licentious  age  ?  Have  you  no  better  consola- 
tion to  offer  me  ?  How  many,  many  times  must  I 
tell  you  that  I  bear  the  lady  no  ill-will  ?  I  do  not 
blame  her  for  not  loving  me.  I  desire  her  happi- 
ness, even  at  the  sacrifice  of  my  own." 

"  That  is  generous  in  you,  and  deserves  a  better 
fate.  But  you  are  so  figurative  in  all  you  say,  that 
a  stranger  would  think  you  had  no  real  feeling,  and 
only  fancied  yom*self  in  love." 

"  Expression  of  feeling  is  different  with  different 
minds.      It  is  not  always  simple.      Some   minds, 


CURFEW  BELLS  223 

when  excited,  naturally  speak  in  figures  and  si- 
militudes. They  do  not  on  that  account  feel  less 
deeply.  This  is  obvious  in  our  most  common 
modes  of  speech.  It  depends  upon  the  individ- 
ual." 

"  Kyrie  Eleyson  !  " 

"  Well,  abuse  my  figures  of  speech  as  much  as 
you  please.  What  I  insist  upon  is,  that  you  shall 
not  abuse  the  lady.  When  did  you  ever  hear  me 
breathe  a  whisper  against  her  ?  " 

"  Oho !  Now  you  speak  like  Launce  to  his 
dog !  " 

Their  conversation,  which  had  begun  so  merrily, 
was  here  suddenly  interrupted  by  a  rattling  peal 
of  thunder,  that  announced  a  near-approaching 
storm.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  whole 
heaven  black  with  low,  trailing  clouds.  Still  black- 
er the  storm  came  sailing  up  majestically  from  the 
southwest,  with  almost  unbroken  volleys  of  dis- 
tant thunder.  The  wind  seemed  to  be  storming 
a  cloud-redoubt,  and  marched  onward  with  dust, 
and  the  green  banners  of  the  trees  flapping  in 
the  air,  and  heavy  cannonading,  and  occasionally 
an  explosion,  like  the  blowing  up  of  a  powder- 
wagon.  Mingled  with  this  was  the  sound  of 
thunder-bells  from  a  village  not  far  off.  They 
were  all  ringing  dolefully  to  ward  off  the  thunder- 
bolt. At  the  entrance  of  the  village  stood  a  large 
wooden  ci'ucifix,  around  which  was  a  crowd  of 
priests  and  peasants,  kneeling  in  the  wet  grass,  by 
the  roadside,  with  their  hands  and  eyes  lifted  to 
heaven,  and  praying  for  rain.  Their  prayer  was 
soon  answered. 


224  HYPERION 

The  travellers  drove  on  with  the  driving  wind 
and  rain.  They  had  come  from  Landeck,  and 
hoped  to  reach  Innsbruck  before  midnight.  Night 
closed  in,  and  Flemming  fell  asleep  with  the  loud 
storm  overhead,  and  at  his  feet  the  roaring  Inn,  a 
mountain  torrent  leaping  onward  as  wild  and  rest- 
less as  when  it  first  sprang  from  its  cradle  in  the 
solitudes  of  Engaddin ;  meet  emblem  of  himself, 
thus  rushing  through  the  night.  His  slumber  was 
long,  but  broken ;  and  at  length  he  awoke  in  ter- 
ror ;  for  he  heard  a  voice  pronounce  in  his  ear 
distinctly  these  words  :  — 

"  They  have  brought  the  dead  body." 

They  were  driving  by  a  churchyard  at  the  en- 
trance of  a  town ;  and  among  the  tombs  a  dim 
lamp  was  burning  before  an  image  of  the  Virgin. 
It  had  a  most  unearthly  apiiearance.  Flemming 
almost  feared  to  see  the  congregation  of  the  dead 
go  into  the  church  and  sing  their  midnight  mass. 
He  spoke  to  Berkley,  but  received  no  answer ;  he 
was  in  a  deep  sleep. 

"  Then  it  was  only  a  dream,"  said  he  to  himself ; 
"  yet  how  distinct  the  voice  was !  Oh,  if  we  had 
spiritual  organs,  to  see  and  hear  things  now  invisi- 
ble and  inaudible  to  us,  we  shoidd  behold  the  whole 
air  filled  with  the  departing  souls  of  that  vast  mul- 
titude whicli  every  moment  dies,  —  should  behold 
them  streaming  up  like  thin  vapors  heavenward, 
and  hear  the  startling  blast  of  the  archangel's 
trump  sounding  incessant  through  the  universe, 
and  proclaiming  the  awful  judgment-day  !  Truly, 
the  soul  departs  not  alone  on  its  last  journey,  but 
spirits  of  its  kind  attend  it,  when  not  ministering 


CURFEW  BELLS  225 

angels,  and  they  go  in  families  to  the  unknown 
land  !     Neither  in  life  nor  in  death  are  we  alone." 

He  slept  again  at  intervals ;  and  at  length, 
though  long  after  midnight,  reached  Innsbi-uck 
between  sleeping  and  waking,  his  mind  filled  with 
dim  recollections  of  the  unspeakably  dismal  night 
journey ;  —  the  climbing  of  hills,  and  plunging 
into  dark  ravines  ;  the  momentary  rattling  of  the 
wheels  over  paved  streets  of  towns,  and  the  suc- 
ceeding hollow  rolling  and  tramping  on  the  wet 
earth ;  the  blackness  of  the  night ;  the  thunder  and 
lightning  and  rain ;  the  roar  of  waters,  leaping 
through  deep  chasms  by  the  roadside  ;  and  the 
wind  through  the  mountain-passes,  sounding  loud 
and  long,  like  the  inextinguishable  laughter  of 
the  gods. 

The  travellers  on  the  morrow  lingered  not  long 
in  Innsbruck.  They  did  not  fail,  however,  to  visit 
the  tomb  of  Maximilian  in  the  Franciscan  Church 
of  the  Holy  Cross,  and  gaze  with  some  admiration 
upon  the  twenty-eight  gigantic  bronze  statues 
of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  and  King  Arthur,  and 
Ernest  the  Iron-man,  and  Frederick  of  the  Empty 
Pockets,  kings  and  heroes,  and  others,  which  stand 
ieaning  on  their  swords  between  the  columns  of 
the  church,  as  if  guarding  the  tomb  of  the  dead. 
These  statues  reminded  Flemming  of  the  bronze 
giants  which  strike  the  hours  on  the  belfry  of  San 
Basso,  in  Venice,  and  of  the  flail-armed  monsters 
that  guarded  the  gateway  of  Angulaffer's  castle  in 
Oberon.  After  gazing  awhile  at  these  motionless 
sentinels,  they  went  forth,  and  strolled  through  the 
public  gardens,  with  the  jagged  mountains  right 


226  IIYPEPdON 

over  their  heads,  and  all  around  them  tall,  mel- 
ancholy j)ines,  like  Tyrolese  peasants,  with  shaggy 
hair ;  and  at  their  feet  the  mad  torrent  of  the  Inn, 
sweeping  with  turbid  waves  through  the  midst  of 
the  town.  In  the  afternoon,  they  drove  on  towards 
Salzburg,  through  the  magnificent  mountain-passes 
of  AVaidering  and  Unken. 


CHAPTER  ni. 

SHADOWS   ON   THE   WALL. 

On  the  following  morning,  Flemming  awoke  in 
a  chamber  of  the  Golden  Ship  at  Salzburg,  just 
as  the  clock  in  the  cathedral  opposite  was  striking 
ten.  The  window-shutters  were  closed,  and  the 
room  was  nearly  dark.  He  was  lying  with  his 
hands  crossed  upon  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  look- 
ing up  at  the  white  curtains  overhead.  He  thought 
them  the  white  marble  canopy  of  a  tomb,  and  him- 
self the  marble  statue  lying  beneath.  When  the 
clock  ceased  striking,  the  eight-and-twenty  gigantic 
bronze  statues  from  the  Church  of  Holy  Kood  in 
Innsbruck  stalked  into  the  chamber,  and  arranged 
themselves  along  the  walls,  which  spread  into  dimly 
lighted  aisles  and  arches.  On  the  painted  win- 
dows he  saw  Interlachen,  with  its  Franciscan 
cloister,  and  the  Square  Tower  of  the  ruins.  In 
a  pendant,  overhead,  stood  the  German  mechanic, 
as  Saint  Vitus  ;  and  on  a  lavatory,  below,  sat  a 
cherub,  with  the  form  and  features  of  Berkley. 
Then  the  organ-pipes  began  to  blow,  and  he  heard 
the  voices  of  an  invisible  choir  chanting.     And 


SHADOWS   ON  THE    WALL  227 

anon  the  gilded  gates  in  the  bronze  screen  before 
the  chancel  opened,  and  a  bridal  procession  passed 
throngh.  The  bride  was  clothed  in  the  garb  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  and  held  a  book  in  her  hand, 
with  velvet  covers,  and  golden  clasps.  It  was 
Mary  Ashburton.  She  looked  at  him  as  she  passed. 
Her  face  was  pale,  and  there  were  tears  in  her 
sweet  eyes.  Then  the  gates  closed  again,  and  one 
of  the  oaken  poppy-heads  over  a  carved  stall,  in 
the  shape  of  an  owl,  flapped  its  broad  wings,  and 
hooted,  "  To-whit !  to-who  !  "  Then  the  whole 
scene  changed,  and  he  thought  himself  a  monk's- 
head  on  a  gutter-spout ;  and  it  rained  dismally, 
and  Berkley  was  standing  underneath  with  an  um- 
brella, laughing ! 

In  other  words,  Flemming  was  in  a  raging  fever, 
and  delirious.  He  remained  in  this  state  for  a 
week.  The  first  thing  he  was  conscious  of  was 
hearing  the  doctor  say  to  Berkley :  — 

"  The  crisis  is  passed.  I  now  consider  him  out 
of  danger." 

He  then  fell  into  a  sweet  sleep  ;  the  wild  fever 
had  swept  away  like  an  angry,  red  cloud,  and  the 
refreshing  summer  rain  began  to  fall  like  dew 
upon  the  parched  earth.  Still  another  week,  and 
Flemming  was  "  sitting  clothed,  and  in  his  right 
mind."  Berkley  had  been  reading  to  him,  and 
still  held  the  book  in  his  hand,  with  his  fore-finger 
between  the  leaves.  It  was  a  volume  of  Hoff- 
mann's writings. 

"  How  very  strange  it  is,"  said  he,  "  that  you 
can  hai-dly  open  the  biography  of  any  German 
author,  biit  you  will  find  it  begin  with  an  account 


228  HYPERION 

of  his  grandfather  I  It  will  tell  you  how  the  ven- 
erable old  man  walked  up  and  down  the  garden 
among  the  gay  flowers,  wrapped  in  his  morning 
gown,  which  is  likewise  covered  with  flowers,  and 
perhaps  wearing  on  his  head  a  little  velvet  cap. 
Or  you  will  find  him  sitting  by  the  chimney-corner 
in  the  great  chair,  smoking  his  ancestral  pipe,  with 
shaggy  eyebrows,  and  eyes  like  bird's-nests  under 
the  eaves  of  a  house,  and  a  mouth  like  a  Nurem- 
berg nutcracker's.  The  future  poet  climbs  upon 
the  old  man's  knees.  His  genius  is  not  recognized 
yet.  He  is  thought  for  the  most  part  a  dull  boy. 
His  father  is  an  austere  man,  or  perhaps  dead. 
But  the  mother  is  still  there,  a  sickly,  saint-like 
woman,  with  knitting-work ;  and  an  elder  sister, 
who  has  already  been  in  love,  and  wears  rings  on 
her  fingers  :  — 

"  Death's  heads,  and  such  mementoes, 
Her  grancbuother  and  worm-eaten  aunts  left  to  her, 
To  tell  her  what  her  heauty  must  arrive  at. ' ' 

"  But  this  is  not  the  case  with  the  life  of  Hoff- 
mann, if  I  recollect  right." 

"  No,  not  precisely.  Instead  of  the  grandfather, 
we  have  the  grandmother,  a  stately  dame,  who  has 
long  since  shaken  hands  with  the  vanities  of  life. 
The  mother,  separated  from  her  husband,  is  sick 
in  mind  and  body,  and  flits  to  and  fro  like  a  shadow. 
Then  there  is  an  affectionate  maiden  aunt ;  and  an 
uncle,  a  retired  judge,  the  terror  of  little  boys,  — 
the  Giant  Despair  of  this  Doubting  Castle  in 
Konigsberg ;  and  occasionally  the  benign  counte- 
nance of  a  venerable  grand-uncle,  whom  La  Motte 
Fouqu6  called  a  hero  of  the  olden  time  in  morning 


SHADOWS   ON   THE    WALL  229 

gown  and  slippers,  looks  in  at  the  door  and  smiles. 
In  the  upper  story  of  the  same  house  lived  a  poor 
boy  with  his  mother,  who  was  so  far  crazed  as  to 
believe  herself  to  be  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  her  son 
the  Saviour  of  the  world.  Wild  fancies,  likewise, 
were  to  sweep  through  the  brain  of  that  child. 
He  was  to  meet  Hoffmann  elsewhere  and  be  his 
friend  in  after  years,  though  as  yet  they  knew 
nothing  of  each  other.  This  was  Werner,  who  has 
made  some  noise  in  German  literature  as  the  author 
of  many  wild  Destiny-Dramas." 

"  Hoffmann  died,  I  believe,  in  Berlin." 

"  Yes.  He  left  Konigsberg  at  twenty  years  of 
age,  and  passed  the  next  eight  years  of  his  life  in 
the  Prussian-Polish  provinces,  where  he  held  some 
petty  office  under  government,  and  took  to  himself 
many  bad  habits  and  a  Polish  wife.  After  this  he 
was  Music-Director  at  various  German  theatres, 
and  led  a  wandering,  wretched  life  for  ten  years. 
He  then  went  to  Berlin  as  Clerk  of  the  Exchange, 
and  there  remained  till  his  death,  which  took  place 
some  seven  or  eight  years  afterward." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  Berlin  during  his  lifetime,  and  saw 
him  frequently.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time. 
It  was  at  one  of  the  Esthetic  Teas  given  by  a  lit- 
erary lady  tmter  den  Linden,  where  the  lions  were 
fed  with  convenient  food,  from  tea  and  bread  and 
butter  up  to  oysters  and  Rhine- wine.  During  the 
evening,  my  attention  was  arrested  by  the  entrance 
of  a  strange  little  figure,  with  a  wild  head  of  brown 
hair.  His  eyes  were  bright  gray,  and  his  thin 
lips  closely  pressed  together  with  an  expression  of 


230  HYPERION 

not  uni)loasing  irony.  This  strange-looking  per- 
sonage began  to  bow  his  way  through  the  erowcl, 
with  quick,  nervous,  hinge-like  motions,  much  re- 
sembling those  of  a  marionnette.  lie  had  a  hoarse 
voice,  and  such  a  rapid  utterance  that,  although  I 
understand  German  well  enough  for  ordinary  pur- 
poses, I  coidd  not  make  out  one  half  he  said.  Ere- 
long he  had  seated  himself  at  the  piano-forte,  and 
was  improvising  such  wild,  sweet  fancies,  that  the 
music  of  one's  dreams  is  not  more  sweet  and  wild. 
Then  suddenly  some  painful  thought  seemed  to 
pass  over  his  mind,  as  if  he  imagined  that  he  was 
there  to  amuse  the  company.  He  rose  from  the 
piano-forte,  and  seated  himself  in  another  part  of 
the  room,  where  he  began  to  make  grimaces,  and 
talk  loud  while  others  were  singing.  Finally  he 
disappeared  like  a  hobgoblin,  laughing,  '  Ho  !  ho  ! 
ho  ! '  I  asked  a  person  beside  me  who  this  strange 
being  was.  '  That  is  Hoffmann,'  was  the  answer. 
'  The  Devil ! '  said  I.  '  Yes,'  continued  my  in- 
formant, '  and  if  you  should  follow  him  now,  you 
would  see  him  plunge  into  an  obscure  and  unfre- 
quented wine-cellar,  and  there,  amid  boon  compan- 
ions, with  wine  and  tobacco-smoke,  and  quirks  and 
quibbles,  and  quaint,  witty  sayings,  turn  the  dim 
night  into  glorious  day.'  " 

"  What  a  strange  being  !  " 

"  I  once  saw  him  at  one  of  his  night-carouses. 
He  was  sitting  in  his  glory,  at  the  head  of  the 
table  ;  not  stupidly  drunk,  but  warmed  with  wine, 
which  made  him  madly  eloquent,  as  the  Devil's 
Elixir  did  the  monk  Medardus.  There,  in  the  full 
tide  of  witty  discourse,  or,  if  silent,  his  gray  hawk. 


SHADOWS   ON  THE    WALL  231 

eye  flashing  from  beneath  his  matted  hair,  and 
taking  note  of  all  that  was  grotesque  in  the  com- 
pany round  him,  sat  this  unfortunate  genius,  till 
the  day  began  to  dawn.  Then  he  found  his  way 
homeward,  having,  like  the  souls  of  the  envious  in 
Purgatory,  his  eyelids  sewed  together  with  iron 
wire  ;  —  though  his  was  from  champagne  bottles. 
At  such  hours  he  wrote  his  wild,  fantastic  tales. 
To  his  excited  fancy  everything  assumed  a  spectral 
look.  The  shadows  of  familiar  things  about  him 
stalked  like  ghosts  through  the  haunted  chambers 
of  his  soul ;  and  the  old  portraits  on  the  walls 
winked  at  him,  and  seemed  stepping  down  from 
their  frames  ;  till,  aghast  at  the  spectral  throng- 
about  him,  he  would  call  his  wife  from  her  bed,  to 
sit  by  him  while  he  wTote." 

"  No  wonder  he  died  in  the  prime  of  life  !  " 
"  No.     The  only  wonder  is,  that  he  could  have 
followed  this  course  of  life  for  six  years.     I  am 
astonished  that  it  did  not  kill  him  sooner." 

"  But  death  came  at  last  in  an  appalling  shape." 
"Yes  ;  his  forty-sixth  birthday  found  him  sitting 
at  home  in  his  arm-chair,  with  his  friends  around 
him.  But  the  rare  old  wine  —  he  always  drank 
the  best  —  touched  not  the  sick  man's  lips  that 
night.  His  wonted  humor  was  gone.  Of  all  his 
'  jibes,  his  gambols,  his  songs,  his  flashes  of  mer- 
riment, that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar, 
not  one  now,  to  mock  his  own  grinning  !  —  quite 
chapfallen.'  The  conversation  was  of  death  and 
the  grave.  And  when  one  of  his  friends  said  that 
life  was  not  the  highest  good,  Hoffmann  interrupted 
him,  exclaiming,  with  a  startling  earnestness,  '  No, 


232  HYPERION- 

no  !  Life,  life,  only  life  !  on  any  condition  what- 
soever !  '  Five  mouths  after  this  he  had  ceased  to 
suffer,  because  he  had  ceased  to  live.  He  died 
piecemeal.  His  feet  and  hands,  his  legs  and  arms, 
gradually,  and  in  succession,  became  motionless, 
dead.  But  his  spirit  was  not  dead,  nor  motionless ; 
and,  thi'ough  the  solitary  day  or  sleepless  night, 
lying  in  his  bed,  he  dictated  to  an  amanuensis  his 
last  stories.  Strange  stories,  indeed,  were  they  for 
a  dying  man  to  write  !  Yet  such  delight  did  he 
take  in  dictating  them,  that  he  said  to  his  friend 
Hitzig,  that,  upon  the  whole,  he  was  willing  to  give 
up  forever  the  use  of  his  hands,  if  he  could  but 
preserve  the  power  of  writing  by  dictation.  Such 
was  his  love  of  life,  —  of  what  he  called  the  sweet 
habitude  of  being !  " 

"  Was  it  not  he,  who  in  his  last  hours  expressed 
such  a  longing  to  behold  the  green  fields  once  more, 
and  exclaimed,  '  Heaven  !  it  is  already  summer, 
and  I  have  not  yet  seen  a  single  green  tree '  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  was  Hoffmann.  Soon  afterwards  he 
died.  The  closing  scene  was  striking.  He  grad- 
ually lost  all  sensation,  though  his  mind  remained 
vigorous.  Feeling  no  more  pain,  he  said  to  his 
physician  :  '  It  will  soon  be  over  now.  I  feel  no 
more  pain.'  He  thought  himself  well  again ;  but 
the  physician  knew  that  he  was  dying,  and  said, 
'  Yes,  it  will  soon  be  over  !  '  The  next  morning 
he  called  his  wife  to  his  bedside,  and  begged  her 
to  fold  his  motionless  hands  together.  Then,  as 
he  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  she  heard  liim  say, 
'  We  must,  then,  think  of  God,  also  !  '  ]VIore  sor- 
rowful words  than  these  have  seldom  fallen  from 


SHADOWS    ON  THE    WALL  233 

the  lips  of  man.  Shortly  afterwards  the  flame  of 
life  glared  up  within  him  ;  he  said  he  was  well 
again ;  that  in  the  evening  he  should  go  on  with 
the  stoiy  he  was  writing  ;  and  wished  that  the  last 
sentence  might  be  read  over  to  him.  Shortly  after 
this  they  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  he  died." 
"  And  thus  passed  to  its  account  a  human  soul, 
after  much  self-inflicted  suffering.  Let  us  tread 
lightly  upon  the  poet's  ashes.  For  my  part,  I  con- 
fess that  I  have  not  the  heart  to  take  him  from  the 
general  crowd  of  erring,  sinful  men,  and  judge 
him  harshly.  The  little  1  have  seen  of  the  world, 
and  know  of  the  history  of  mankind,  teaches  me 
to  look  upon  the  errors  of  others  in  sorrow,  not  in 
anger.  When  I  take  the  history  of  one  poor  heart 
that  has  sinned  and  suffered,  and  represent  to  my- 
self the  struggles  and  temptations  it  has  passed,  — 
the  brief  pulsations  of  joy,  the  feverish  inquietude 
of  hope  and  fear,  the  tears  of  regret,  the  feebleness 
of  purpose,  the  pressvire  of  want,  the  desertion  of 
friends,  the  scorn  of  a  world  that  has  little 
charity,  the  desolation  of  the  soul's  sanctuary,  and 
threatening  voices  within,  —  health  gone,  happi- 
ness gone,  —  even  hope,  that  stays  longest  with 
us,  gone,  —  I  have  little  heart  for  aught  else  than 
thankfulness  that  it  is  not  so  with  me,  and  would 
fain  leave  the  erring  soul  of  my  fellow-man  with 
Him  from  whose  hands  it  came, 

"  Even  as  a  little  girl, 
Weeping  ahd  laughing  in  her  childish  sport." 

"  You  are  right.  And  it  is  worth  a  student's 
while  to  observe  calmly  how  tobacco,  wine,  and 
midnight  did  their  work  like  fiends  upon  the  deli- 


234  HYPERION 

cate  frame  of  Hoffmann  ;  and  no  less  thoroiighly 
upon  liis  delicate  mind.  He  who  drinks  beer 
thinks  beer  ;  and  he  who  drinks  wine  thinks  wine  ; 
and  he  who  drinks  midnight  thinks  midnight.  He 
was  a  man  of  rare  intellect.  He  was  endowed 
with  racy  humor,  and  sarcastic  wit,  and  a  glorious 
imagination.  But  the  fire  of  his  genius  burned 
not  peacefully  and  with  a  steady  flame  upon  the 
hearth  of  his  home.  It  was  a  glaring  and  irregu- 
lar flame  ;  for  the  branches  that  he  fed  it  with 
were  not  branches  from  the  Tree  of  Life,  but  from 
another  tree  that  grew  in  Paradise,  and  they  were 
wet  with  the  unhealthy  dews  of  night,  and  more 
unhealthy  wine ;  and  thus,  amid  smoke  and  ashes, 
the  fire  burned  fitfully,  and  went  out  with  a  glare 
which  leaves  the  beholder  blind." 

"  This  fire  within  him  was  a  Meleager's  fire- 
brand ;  and  when  it  burned  out,  he  died.  And, 
as  you  say,  marks  of  all  this  are  clearly  visible  in 
Hoffmann's  writings.  Indeed,  when  1  read  his 
strange  fancies,  it  is  with  me  as  when  in  the  sum- 
mer night  I  hear  the  rising  wind  among  the  trees, 
and  the  branches  bow,  and  beckon  with  their  long 
fingers,  and  voices  go  gibbering  and  mocking 
through  the  air.  A  feeling  of  awe  and  mysterious 
dread  comes  over  me.  I  wish  to  hear  the  sound 
of  living  voice  or  footstep  near  me,  —  to  see  a 
friendly  and  familiar  face.  In  truth,  if  it  be  late 
at  night,  the  reader  as  well  as  the  writer  of  these 
unearthly  fancies  would  fain  have  a  patient,  meek- 
eyed  wife,  with  her  knitting-work,  at  his  elbow." 

Berkley  smiled  ;  but  Flemming  continued  with- 
out noticing  the  smile,  though  he  knew  what  was 
passing  in  the  mind  of  his  friend  :  — 


SHADOWS   ON   THE    WALL  235 

"  The  life  and  writings  of  this  singular  being  in- 
terest me  in  a  high  degree.  Sometimes  we  may 
learn  more  from  a  man's  errors  than  from  his  vir- 
tues. Moreover,  from  the  common  sympathies  of 
our  nature,  souls  that  have  struggled  and  suffered 
are  dear  to  me.  Willingly  do  I  recognize  their 
brotherhood.  Scars  upon  their  foreheads  do  not 
so  deform  them  that  they  cease  to  interest.  They 
are  always  signs  of  struggle,  though,  alas!  too 
often,  likewise,  of  defeat.  Seasons  of  unhealthy, 
dreamy,  vague  delight  are  followed  by  seasons  of 
weariness  and  darkness.  Where  are  then  the 
bright  fancies,  that,  amid  the  great  stillness  of  the 
night,  arise  like  stars  in  the  firmament  of  our  souls  ? 
The  morning  dawns,  the  light  of  common  day 
shines  in  upon  us,  and  the  heavens  are  without  a 
star !  From  the  lives  of  such  men  we  learn  that 
mere  pleasant  sensations  are  not  happiness ;  that 
sensual  pleasures  are  to  be  drunk  sparingly,  and, 
as  it  were,  from  the  palm  of  the  hand  ;  and  that 
those  who  bow  down  upon  their  knees  to  drink  of 
these  bright  streams  that  water  life  are  not  chosen 
of  God  either  to  overthrow  or  overcome !  " 

"  I  think  you  are  very  lenient  in  your  judgment. 
This  is  not  the  usual  defect  of  critics.  Like 
Shakespeare's  samphire-gatherer,  they  have  a 
dreadful  trade  !  and,  to  make  the  simile  complete, 
they  ought  to  hang  for  it !  " 

"  Methinks  it  would  be  hard  to  hang  a  man  for 
the  sake  of  a  simile.  But  now  go  on  with  the 
phantasy-Pieces  in  Callot's  manner." 

"  By  the  way,  who  was  this  Callot  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  Lorraine  painter,  of  the  seventeenth 


236  HYPERION 

century,  celebrated  for  his  wild  and  grotesque  con- 
ceptions. These  sketches  of  Hoffmann  are  imita- 
tions of  his  style." 

"  And  which  of  them  shall  I  read  to  you  next  ? 
The  Ritter  Gliick  ;  or  the  Musical  Sufferings  of 
John  Kreisler ;  or  that  exquisite  stoi-y  of  the 
Golden  Jar,  wherein  is  depicted  the  life  of  Poesy 
in  this  commonplace  world  of  ours?  " 

"  Read  the  shortest.  Read  Kreisler.  That 
will  amuse  me.  It  is  a  picture  of  his  own  suffer- 
ings at  the  Esthetic  Teas  in  Berlin,  supposed  to  be 
written  in  pencil  on  the  blank  leaves  of  a  music- 
book." 

Thereupon  Berkley  leaned  back  in  his  easy- 
chair,  and  read  as  follows. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

MUSICAL   SUFFERmGS   OF   JOHN   KREISLER. 

"  They  are  all  gone  !  I  might  have  known  it 
by  the  whispering,  shuffling,  coughing,  humming 
through  aU  the  notes  of  the  gamut.  It  was  a  true 
swarm  of  bees,  leaving  the  old  hive.  Gottlieb  has 
lighted  fresh  candles  for  me,  and  placed  a  bottle  of 
Burgundy  on  the  piano-forte.  I  can  play  no  more, 
I  am  perfectly  exhausted.  My  glorious  old  friend 
here  on  the  music-stand  is  to  blame  for  that.  Again 
he  has  borne  me  away  through  the  air,  as  Mephis- 
topheles  did  Faust,  and  so  high,  that  I  took  not  the 
slightest  notice  of  the  little  men  under  me,  though 
I  dare  say  they  made  noise  enough.  A  rascally, 
worthless,  wasted  evening !      But  now  I  am  well 


MUSICAL   SUFFERINGS   OF  KREISLER     237 

and  merry !  However,  while  I  was  playing,  I  took 
out  my  pencil,  and  on  page  sixty-three,  under  the 
last  staff,  noted  down  a  couple  of  good  flourishes 
in  cipher  with  my  right  hand,  while  the  left  was 
struggling  away  in  the  torrent  of  sweet  sounds. 
Upon  the  blank  page  at  the  end  1  go  on  writing, 
I  leave  all  ciphers  and  sweet  sounds,  and  with  true 
delight,  like  a  sick  man  restored  to  health,  who  can 
never  stop  relating  what  he  has  suffered,  I  note 
down  here  cii'cumstantially  the  dire  agonies  of  this 
evening's  tea-party.  And  not  for  myself  alone,  but 
likewise  for  all  those  who  from  time  to  time  may 
amuse  and  edify  themselves  with  my  copy  of  John 
Sebastian  Bach's  Variations  for  the  Piano-forte, 
published  by  Nageli  in  Zurich,  and  who  find  my 
marks  at  the  end  of  the  thirtieth  variation,  and, 
led  on  by  the  great  Latin  Verte  (I  will  write  it 
down  the  moment  I  get  through  this  doleful  state- 
ment of  grievances)  turn  over  the  leaf  and  read. 

"  They  will  at  once  see  the  connection.  They 
know  that  the  Geheimerath  Rodelein's  house  is  a 
charming  house  to  visit  in,  and  that  he  has  two 
daughters,  of  whom  the  whole  fashionable  world 
proclaims  with  enthusiasm  that  they  dance  like 
goddesses,  speak  French  like  angels,  and  play  and 
sing  and  draw  like  the  Muses.  The  Geheimerath 
Rodelein  is  a  rich  man.  At  his  quarterly  dinners 
he  sends  up  the  most  delicious  wines  and  richest 
dishes.  All  is  established  on  a  footing  of  the 
greatest  elegance  *,  and  whoever  at  his  tea-parties 
does  not  amuse  himself  heavenly,  has  no  ton^  no 
esprit^  and  particularly  no  taste  for  the  fine  arts. 
It  is  with  an  eye  to  these  that,  with  the  tea,  punch, 


238  HYPERION 

wine,  ices,  etc.,  a  little  imisic  is  always  served  up, 
which,  like  the  other  refreshinents,  is  very  quietly 
swallowed  by  the  fashionable  world. 

"  Tlie  arrangements  arc  as  follows.  After  every 
guest  has  had  time  enough  to  drink  as  many  cujjs 
of  tea  as  he  may  wish,  and  punch  and  ices  have 
been  handed  round  twice,  the  servants  wheel  out 
the  card-tables  for  the  elder  and  more  solid  part 
of  the  company,  who  had  rather  play  cards  than 
any  musical  instrument ;  and,  in  fact,  this  kind  of 
jjlaying  does  not  make  such  a  useless  noise  as  the 
other,  and  you  hear  only  the  clink  of  money. 

"  This  is  a  hint  for  the  younger  part  of  the  com- 
pany to  pounce  upon  the  Misses  Rodelein.  A  great 
tumult  ensues ;  in  the  midst  of  which  you  can  dis- 
tinguish these  words :  — 

'''"'' Schones  Friiulein  I  do  not  refuse  us  the 
gratification  of  your  heavenly  talent !  Oh,  sing 
something !  that 's  a  good  dear !  —  impossible,  — 
bad  cold,  —  the  last  ball !  have  not  practised  any- 
thing. —  Oh,  do,  do,  we  beg  of  you,'  etc. 

"  Meanwhile  Gottlieb  has  opened  the  piano- 
forte, and  placed  the  well-known  music-book  on 
the  stand ;  and  from  the  card-table  cries  the  re- 
spectable mamma, — 

"  ••  Chante?.  donc^  wie.s  enfants  !  ' 

"  That  is  the  cue  of  my  part.  I  place  myself  at 
the  piano-forte,  and  the  Rcideleins  are  led  up  to  the 
instrument  in  triumph. 

"  And  now  another  difficulty  arises.  Neither 
wishes  to  sing  first. 

" '  You  know,  dear  Nanette,  how  dreadfully 
hoarse  I  am.' 


MUSICAL   SUFFERINGS   OF  KREISLER     239 

"  '  Why,  my  clear  Marie,  I  am  as  hoarse  as  you 
are.' 

"  '  I  sing  so  badly !  '  — 

"  '  Oh,  my  clear  child ;  do  begin ! ' 

"  My  suggestion,  (I  always  make  the  same !) 
that  they  should  both  begin  together  with  a  duet, 
is  loudly  applauded  ;  —  the  music-book  is  thumbed 
over,  and  the  leaf,  carefully  folded  down,  is  at 
length  found,  and  away  we  go  with  Dolce  delV 
cniirna,  etc. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  the  talent  of  the  Misses 
Rodelein  is  not  the  smallest.  I  have  been  an  in- 
structor here  only  five  years,  and  little  short  of 
two  years  in  the  Rodelein  family.  In  this  short 
time,  Fraulein  Nanette  has  made  such  progress, 
that  a  tune,  which  she  has  heard  at  the  theatre 
only  ten  times,  and  has  played  on  the  piano-forte, 
at  farthest,  ten  times  more,  she  will  sing  right  off, 
so  that  you  know  in  a  moment  what  it  is.  Frau- 
lein Marie  catches  it  at  the  eighth  time;  and 
if  she  is  sometimes  a  quarter  of  a  note  lower  than 
the  piano-forte,  after  all  it  is  very  tolerable,  con- 
sidering her  pretty  little  doll-face,  and  very  pass- 
able rosy  lips. 

"  After  the  duet,  a  universal  chorus  of  applause ! 
And  now  ariettas  and  duettinos  succeed  each  other, 
and  right  merrily  I  hammer  away  at  the  thousand- 
times-repeated  accompaniments.  During  the  sing- 
ing, the  Finanzrathin  Eberstein,  by  coughing  and 
humming,  has  given  us  to  understand  that  she  also 
sings.     Fraulein  Nanette  says  :  — 

" '  But,  my  dear  Finanzrathin,  now  you  must  let 
us  hear  your  exquisite  voice.' 


240  HYPERION 

"  A  new  tumult  arises.  She  has  a  bad  cold  In 
her  head,  —  she  does  not  know  anything  by  heart ! 
Gottlieb  brings  straightway  two  armf  uls  of  music- 
books;  and  the  leaves  are  turned  over  again  and 
again.  First  she  thinks  she  will  sing  l)cr  Ilolle 
Hache,  etc.,  then  Hehe  sich,  etc.,  then  Ach,  Ich 
liebte,  etc.  In  this  embarrassment,  I  propose,  J^in 
Veilchen  aiif  der  JVlese,  etc.  But  she  is  for  the 
heroic  style ;  she  wants  to  make  a  display,  and 
finally  selects  Constanze. 

"  Oh,  scream,  squeak,  mew,  gurgle,  groan,  ago- 
nize, quiver,  quaver,  just  as  much  as  you  please, 
Madam,  I  have  my  foot  on  the  fortissimo  pedal, 
and  thunder  myself  deaf !  O  Satan,  Satan ! 
which  of  thy  goblins  damned  has  got  into  this 
throat,  pinching,  and  kicking,  and  cuffing  the  tones 
about  so !  Four  strings  have  snapped  already, 
and  one  hammer  is  lamed  for  life.  My  ears  ring 
again,  —  my  head  hums,  —  my  nerves  tremble ! 
Have  all  the  harsh  notes  fi'om  the  cracked  trumpet 
of  a  mountebank  been  imprisoned  in  this  little 
throat !  (But  this  excites  me,  —  I  must  drink  a 
glass  of  Burgundy.) 

"  The  applause  was  unbounded,  and  some  one 
observed,  that  the  Finanzrathin  and  Mozart  had 
put  me  quite  into  a  blaze.  I  smiled  with  downcast 
eyes,  very  stupidly.  I  could  but  acknowledge  it. 
And  now  all  talents,  which  hitherto  had  bloomed 
unseen,  were  in  motion,  wildly  flitting  to  and  fro. 
They  were  bent  upon  a  surfeit  of  music  ;  tuttis, 
finales,  choruses,  must  be  performed.  The  Canon- 
icus  Kratzer  sings,  you  know,  a  heavenly  bass, 
as  was  observed  by  the  gentleman  yonder,  with  the 


MUSICAL  SUFFERINGS  OF  KREISLER     241 

head  of  Titus  Andronicus,  who  modestly  remarked 
also,  that  he  himself  was  properly  only  a  second- 
rate  tenor  ;  but,  though  he  said  it  who  should  not 
say  it,  he  was  nevertheless  member  of  several 
academies  of  music.  Forthwith  preparations  are 
made  for  the  first  chorus  in  the  opera  of  Titus. 
It  went  off  gloriously.  The  Canonicus,  standing 
close  behind  me,  thundered  out  the  bass  over  my 
head,  as  if  he  were  singing  with  bass-drums  and 
trumpet  ohllgato  in  a  cathedral.  He  struck  the 
notes  gloriously ;  but  in  his  hurry  he  got  the  tempo 
about  twice  too  slow.  However,  he  was  true  to 
himself  at  least  in  this,  that  through  the  whole 
piece  he  dragged  along  just  half  a  beat  behind  the 
rest.  The  others  showed  a  most  decided  penchant 
for  the  ancient  Greek  music,  which,  as  is  well 
known,  having  nothing  to  do  with  harmony,  ran 
on  in  tinison  or  monotone.  They  all  sang  treble, 
with  slight  variations,  caused  by  accidental  rising 
or  falling  of  the  voice,  say  some  quarter  of  a 
note. 

"  This  somewhat  noisy  affair  produced  a  univer- 
sal tragic  state  of  feeling,  namely  a  kind  of  terror, 
even  at  the  card-tables,  which  for  the  moment 
could  no  longer,  as  before,  chime  in  melodramati- 
cally, by  weaving  into  the  music  sundry  exclama- 
tions ;  as,  for  instance  :  — 

"  '  Oh  !  I  loved,  —  eight  and  forty,  —  was  so 
happy,  —  I  pass,  —  then  I  knew  not,  —  whist,  — 
pangs  of  love,  —  follow  suit,'  etc.  —  It  has  a  very 
pretty  effect.      (I  fill  my  glass.) 

"  That  was  the  highest  point  of  the  musical  ex- 
hibition this  evening.    '  Now  it  is  all  over,'  thought 


242  HYPERION 

I  to  mj'self.  I  shut  the  book,  and  got  up  from  the 
piano-forte.  But  the  Baron,  mj  ancient  reuor, 
came  up  to  me  and  said  :  — 

"  '  My  dear  Herr  Capellmeister,  they  say  you 
play  the  most  exquisite  voluntaries  I  Now  do  play 
us  one  ;  only  a  short  one,  I  entreat  you  I  ' 

"  I  answered  very  dryly,  that  to-day  my  fantasies 
had  all  gone  a  wool-gathering ;  and  while  we  are 
talking  about  it,  a  devil,  in  the  shape  of  a  dandy, 
with  two  waistcoats,  had  smelt  out  Bach's  Varia- 
tions, which  were  lying  under  my  hat  in  the  next 
room.  He  thinks  they  are  merely  little  variations, 
such  as  Nel  cor  mio  non  piti  sento,  or  Ah  vous 
dirai-je,  maman,  etc.,  and  insists  upon  it  that  I 
shall  play  them.  I  try  to  excuse  myself,  but  they 
all  attack  me.  So  then,  '  Listen,  and  burst  with 
ennui,'  think  I  to  myself,  and  begin  to  work  away. 

"  When  I  had  got  to  variation  number  three, 
several  ladies  departed,  followed  by  the  gentleman 
with  the  Titus- Andronicus  head.  The  Kodeleins,  as 
their  teacher  was  playing,  stood  it  out,  though  not 
without  difficulty,  to  number  twelve.  Number 
fifteen  made  the  man  with  two  waistcoats  take  to 
his  heels.  Out  of  most  excessive  politeness,  the 
Baron  stayed  till  number  thirty,  and  drank  up  all 
the  punch  which  Gottlieb  placed  on  the  piano-forte 
for  me. 

"  I  should  have  brought  all  to  a  happy  con- 
clusion, but,  alas !  this  number  thirty  —  the  theme 
—  tore  me  irresistibly  away.  Suddenly  the  quarto 
leaves  spread  out  to  a  gigantic  folio,  on  which  a 
thousand  imitations  and  developments  of  the  theme 
stood  written,  and  I  could  not.  choose   but  play 


MUSICAL  SUFFERINGS  OF  KREISLER     243 

tliem.  The  notes  became  alive,  and  glimmered 
and  hopped  all  round  about  me,  —  an  electric  fire 
streamed  through  the  tips  of  my  fingers  into  the 
keys,  —  the  spirit  from  which  it  gushed  forth 
spread  his  broad  wings  over  my  soul,  the  whole 
room  was  filled  with  a  thick  mist,  in  which  the 
candles  burned  dim,  —  and  through  which  peered 
forth  now  a  nose,  and  anon  a  pair  of  eyes,  and 
then  suddenly  vanished  away  again.  And  thus  it 
came  to  pass  that  I  was  left  alone  with  my  Sebas- 
tian Bach,  by  Gottlieb  attended,  as  by  a  familiar 
spirit.     (Your  good  health.  Sir.) 

"  Is  an  honest  musician  to  be  tormented  with 
music,  as  I  have  been  to-day,  and  am  so  often  tor- 
mented ?  Verily,  no  art  is  so  damnably  abused  as 
this  same  glorious,  holy  Musica,  who,  in  her  deli- 
cate being,  is  so  easily  desecrated.  Have  you  real 
talent,  —  real  feeling  for  art  ?  Then  study  music, 
—  do  something  worthy  of  the  art,  —  and  dedicate 
yovir  whole  soul  to  the  beloved  saint.  If  without 
this  you  have  a  fancy  for  quavers  and  demi-semi- 
quavers,  practise  for  yourself  and  by  yourself,  and 
torment  not  therewith  the  Capellmeister  Kreisler 
and  others. 

"  Well,  now  I  might  go  home,  and  put  the  finish- 
ing touch  to  my  sonata  for  the  piano-forte  ;  but  it 
is  not  yet  eleven  o'clock,  and,  withal,  a  beautiful 
summer  night.  I  will  lay  any  wager  that  at  my 
neighbor's,  the  Oberjligermeister,  the  young  ladies 
are  sitting  at  the  window,  screaming  down  into  the 
street,  for  the  twentieth  time,  with  harsh,  sharp, 
piercing  voices, '  When  thine  eye  is  beaming,  love,' 
' —  but  only  the  first  stanza,  over  and  over  again. 


244  HYPERION 

Obliquely  across  the  way,  some  one  Is  murdering 
the  riute,  and  has,  moreover,  lungs  like  Kameau's 
nej)he\v ;  and,  in  notes  of  '  linked  sweetness  long 
drawn  out,'  his  neighbor  is  trying  acoustic  experi- 
ments on  the  French  horn.  The  numerous  dt)gs 
of  the  neighborhood  are  growing  unquiet,  and  my 
landlord's  cat,  inspired  by  that  sweet  duet,  is  nuik- 
ing,  by  my  window  (for,  of  course,  my  musico- 
poetic  laboratory  is  an  attic)  certain  tender  con- 
fessions, upward  through  the  whole  chromatic 
scale,  soft  complaining,  to  the  neighbor's  tabby, 
with  whom  he  has  been  in  love  since  March  last ! 
Till  this  is  all  fairly  over,  I  think  I  will  sit  quietly 
hei-e.  Besides,  there  is  stdi  blank  paper  and  Bur- 
gundy left,  of  which  I  forthwith  take  a  sip. 

"  There  is,  as  I  have  heard,  an  ancient  law,  for- 
bidding those  who  follow  any  noisy  handicraft  from 
living  near  literary  men.  Should  not  then  musi- 
cal composers,  poor  and  hard  beset,  and  who, 
moreover,  are  forced  to  coin  their  inspiration  into 
gold  to  spin  out  the  thread  of  life  withal,  be  al- 
lowed to  apply  this  law  to  themselves,  and  banish 
out  of  the  neighborhood  all  ballad-singers  and  bag- 
pipers ?  What  would  a  painter  say,  while  trans- 
ferring to  his  canvas  a  form  of  ideal  beauty,  if 
you  should  hold  up  before  him  all  manner  of  wild 
faces  and  ugly  masks  ?  He  might  shut  his  eyes, 
and  in  this  way,  at  least,  quietly  follow  out  the 
images  of  fancy.  Cotton,  in  one's  ears,  is  of  no 
use ;  one  still  hears  the  dreadful  massacre.  And 
then  the  idea,  —  the  bare  idea,  '  Now  they  are 
going  to  sing,  —  now  the  horn  strikes  up,'  —  is 
enough  to  send  one's  sublimest  thoughts  to  the 
very  Devil." 


SAINT  GILGEN  246 

CHAPTER  V. 

SAINT    GILGEN. 

It  was  a  bright  Sunday  morning  when  Flem- 
ming  and  Berkley  left  beliind  them  the  cloud- 
capped  hills  of  Salzburg,  and  journeyed  eastward 
towards  the  lakes.  The  landscape  around  them 
was  one  to  attune  their  souls  to  holy  musings. 
Field,  forest,  hill  and  vale,  fresh  air,  and  the  per- 
fume of  clover-fields  and  new-mown  hay,  birds 
singing,  and  the  sound  of  village  bells,  and  the 
moving  breeze  among  the  branches,  —  no  laborers 
in  the  fields,  but  peasants  on  their  way  to  church, 
coming  across  the  green  pastures,  with  roses  in 
their  hats,  —  the  beauty  and  quiet  of  the  holy  day 
of  rest,  —  all,  all  in  earth  and  air  breathed  uj)on 
the  soul  like  a  benediction. 

They  stopped  to  change  horses  at  Hof,  a  handful 
of  houses  on  the  brow  of  a  breezy  hill,  the  church 
and  inn  standing  opposite  to  each  other,  and  noth- 
ing between  them  but  the  dusty  road,  and  the 
churchyard  with  its  iron  crosses  and  the  fluttering 
tinsel  of  the  funeral  garlands.  In  the  churchyard, 
and  at  the  inn-door,  were  groups  of  peasants,  wait- 
ing for  divine  service  to  begin.  They  were  clothed 
in  their  holiday  dresses.  The  men  wore  breeches 
and  long  boots  and  frock-coats  with  large  metal 
buttons  ;  the  women,  straw  hats  and  gay  calico 
gowns  with  short  waists  and  scant  folds.  They  were 
adorned  with  a  profusion  of  great  trumper}^  orna- 
ments, and  reminded  Flemming  of  the  Indians  in 
the  frontier  villages  of  America.    Near  the  church- 


246  HYPERION 

yard-gate  was  a  booth,  filled  with  flaunting  cali- 
coes ;  and  opposite  sat  an  old  woman  behind  a 
table,  which  was  loaded  with  gingei-bread.  She 
had  a  roulette  at  her  elbow,  where  the  peasants 
risked  a  kreutzer  for  a  cake.  On  other  tables, 
cases  of  knives,  scythes,  reaping-hooks,  and  other 
implements  of  husbandry  were  offered  for  sale. 

The  travellers  continued  their  journey,  without 
stopping  to  hear  mass.  In  the  course  of  the  fore- 
noon, they  came  suddenly  in  sight  of  the  beautifid 
lake  of  Saint  Wolfgang,  lying  deep  beneath  them 
in  the  valley.  On  its  shore,  under  them,  sat  the 
white  village  of  Saint  Gilgen,  like  a  swan  upon  its 
reedy  nest.  They  seemed  to  have  taken  it  un- 
awares, and,  as  it  were,  clapped  their  hands  upon 
it  in  its  sleep,  and  almost  expected  to  see  it  spread 
its  broad  snow-white  wings  and  fly  away.  The 
whole  scene  was  one  of  surpassing  beauty. 

They  drove  leisurely  down  the  steep  hill,  and 
stopped  at  the  village  inn.  Before  the  door  was  a 
magnificent  broad-armed  tree,  with  benches  and 
tables  beneath  its  shadow.  On  the  front  of  the 
house  was  written  in  large  letters,  "  Post-Tavern 
by  Franz  Schondorfer ;  "  and  over  this  was  a  large 
sun-dial,  and  a  half-effaced  painting  of  a  bear- 
hunt,  covering  the  whole  side  of  the  house,  and 
mostly  red.  As  they  drove  up,  a  procession  of 
priests  with  banners,  and  peasants  with  their  hats 
in  their  hands,  passed  by  towards  the  church. 
They  were  singing  a  solemn  psalm.  At  the  same 
moment,  a  smart  servant-girl,  with  a  black  straw 
hat  set  coquettishly  on  her  flaxen  hair,  and  a  large 
sUver  spoon  in  her  girdle,  came  out  of  the  inn,  and 


SAINT  GILGEN  247 

asked  Flemming  what  he  would  please  to  order  for 
breakfast. 

Breakfast  was  soon  ready,  and  was  served  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  on  an  old-fashioned  oaken  table 
in  the  great  hall,  into  which  the  chambers  opened. 
Berkley  ordered  at  the  same  time  a  tub  of  cold 
water,  in  which  he  seated  himself,  with  his  coat  on, 
and  a  bed-quilt  thrown  round  his  knees.  Thus  he 
sat  for  an  hour ;  ate  his  breakfast,  and  smoked  a 
pipe,  and  laughed  a  good  deal.  He  then  went  to 
bed  and  slept  till  dinner-time.  Meanwhile  Hem- 
ming sat  in  his  chamber  and  read.  It  was  a  large 
room  in  the  front  of  the  house,  looking  ujjon  the 
village  and  the  lake.  The  windows  were  latticed, 
with  small  panes,  and  the  window-sills  filled  with 
fragrant  flowers. 

At  lengi;h  the  heat  of  noon  was  over.  Day,  like 
a  weary  pilgrim,  had  reached  the  western  gate  of 
heaven,  and  Evening  stooped  down  to  unloose  the 
latchets  of  his  sandal-shoon.  Flemming  and  Berk- 
ley sallied  forth  to  ramble  by  the  borders  of  the 
lake.  Down  the  cool  green  glades  and  alleys,  be- 
neath the  illuminated  leaves  of  the  forest,  over  the 
rising  grounds  in  the  glimmering  fretwork  of  sun- 
shine and  leaf -shadow,  —  an  exhilarating  wallt ! 
The  cool  evening  air  by  the  lake  was  like  a  bath. 
They  drank  the  freshness  of  the  hour  in  thirsty 
draughts,  and  their  breasts  heaved  rejoicing  and 
revived,  after  the  feverish,  long  confinement  of  the 
sultry  summer  day.  And  there,  too,  lay  the  lake, 
so  beautiful  and  still !  Did  it  not  recall,  think  ye, 
the  lake  of  Thun  ? 

On  their  return  homeward,  they  passed  near  the 
village  churchyard. 


248  HYPERION 

"  Let  lis  go  in  and  see  how  the  dead  rest,"  said 
Fleniniing,  as  they  passed  beneath  the  belfry  of 
the  chuieh ;  and  they  went  in,  and  lingered  among 
the  tombs  and  the  evening  shadows. 

How  peaceful  is  the  dwelling-place  of  those  who 
inhabit  the  green  hamlets  and  populous  cities  of 
the  dead  !  They  need  no  antidote  for  care,  —  no 
armor  against  fate.  No  morning  sun  shines  in  at 
the  closed  windows  and  awakens  them,  nor  shall 
until  the  last  great  day.  At  most,  a  straggling 
sunbeam  creeps  in  through  the  crumbling  wall  of 
an  old,  neglected  tomb,  —  a  strange  visitor,  that 
stays  not  long.  And  there  they  all  sleep,  the  holy 
ones,  with  their  arms  crossed  upon  their  breasts, 
or  lying  motionless  by  their  sides,  —  not  carved  in 
marble  by  the  hand  of  man,  but  formed  in  dust  by 
the  hand  of  God.  God's  peace  be  with  them  !  No 
one  comes  to  them  now,  to  hold  them  by  the  hand, 
and  with  delicate  fingers  to  smooth  their  hair. 
They  heed  no  more  the  blandishments  of  earthly 
friendship.  They  need  us  not,  however  much  we 
may  need  them.  And  yet  they  silently  await  our 
coming. 

Beautiful  is  that  season  of  life,  when  we  can 
say,  in  the  language  of  Scripture,  "  Thou  hast  the 
dew  of  thy  youth."  But  of  these  flowers  Death 
gathers  many.  He  places  them  upon  his  bosom, 
and  he  is  transformed  into  something  less  terrific 
than  before.  We  learn  to  gaze  and  shudder  not ; 
for  he  carries  in  his  arms  the  sweet  blossoms  of 
our  earthly  hopes.  We  shall  see  them  all  again, 
blooming  in  a  hajipier  land. 

Yes,  Death  brings  us  again  to  our  friends.    They 


SAINT  GILGEN  249 

are  waiting  for  us,  and  we  shall  not  long  delay. 
They  have  gone  before  us,  and  are  like  the  angela^ 
in  hea^yen.  They  stand  upon  the  borders  of  the 
grave  to  welcome  us,  with  the  countenance  of  affec- 
tion which  they  wore  on  earth ;  yet  more  lovely, 
more  radiant,  more  spiritual !  He  spake  well  who 
said  that  graves  are  the  footprints  of  angels ! 

Death  has  taken  thee,  too,  and  thou  hast  the 
dew  of  thy  youth.  He  has  placed  thee  upon  his 
bosom,  and  his  stern  countenance  wears  a  smile. 
The  far  country,  toward  which  we  journey,  seems 
nearer  to  us,  and  the  way  less  dark  ;  for  thou  hast 
gone  before,  passing  so  quietly  to  thy  rest,  that  day 
itself  dies  not  more  calmly  ! 

It  was  in  an  hour  of  blessed  communion  with 
the  souls  of  the  departed,  that  the  sweet  poet 
Henry  Vaughan  wrote  those  few  lines  which  have 
made  death  lovely. 

They  are  all  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 
And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 
.  Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  the  hill  is  dressed 

After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 
Wliose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days, 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoaxy, 
Mere  glimmerings  and  decays. 

O  holy  hope,  and  high  humility. 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  ye  have  showed  them  me. 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 


250  HYPERION 

Dear,  beauteous  Death !  the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

Shimng^  nowhere  hut  in  the  dark  1 
Wliat  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know. 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet  as  angel^,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 

And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flame  must  needs  burn  there. 

But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gave  room 
She  'd  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  thee ! 
Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 

Into  true  liberty. 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective,  still  as  they  pass, 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 

Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 

Such  were  !Flemming's  thoughts,  as  he  stood 
among  the  tombs  at  evening  in  the  churchyard  of 
Saint  Gilgen.  A  holy  calm  stole  over  him.  The 
fever  of  his  heart  was  allayed.  He  had  a  mo- 
ment's rest  from  pain,  and  went  back  to  his  cham- 
ber in  peace.  Whence  came  this  holy  calm,  this 
long-desired  tranquillity?  He  knew  not;  yet  the 
place  seemed  consecrated.  He  resolved  to  linger 
there  beside  the  lake,  which  was  a  Pool  of  Bethesda 
for  him  ;  and  let  Berkley  go  on  alone  to  the  baths 


SAINT   WOLFGANG  251 

of  Iscliel.  He  would  wait  for  him  there  in  the 
solitude  of  Saint  Gilgen.  Long  after  they  had 
parted  for  the  night,  he  sat  in  his  chamber,  and 
thought  of  what  he  had  suffered,  and  enjoyed  the 
silence  within  and  without.  Hour  after  hour 
slipped  by  unheeded,  as  he  sat  lost  in  his  reverie. 
At  length,  his  candle  sank  m  its  socket,  gave  one 
flickering  gleam,  and  expired  with  a  sob.  This 
aroused  him. 

He  went  to  the  window,  and  peered  out  into  the 
dark  night.  It  was  very  late.  Twice  already  since 
midnight  had  the  great  pulpit-orator  Time,  like  a 
preacher  in  the  days  of  the  Puritans,  turned  the 
hour-glass  on  his  high  pulpit,  the  church-belfry, 
and  still  went  on  with  his  sermon,  thundering 
downward  to  the  congregation  in  the  churchyard 
and  in  the  village.  But  they  heard  him  not.  They 
were  all  asleep  in  their  narrow  pews,  namely,  in 
their  beds  and  in  their  graves.  Soon  afterward  the 
cock  crew ;  and  the  cloudy  heaven,  like  the  Apostle 
who  denied  his  Lord,  wept  bitterly. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

SAESTT  WOLFGANG. 

The  morning  is  lovely  beyond  expression.  The 
heat  of  the  sun  is  great ;  but  a  gentle  wind  cools 
the  air.  Birds  never  sang  more  loud  and  clear. 
The  flowers,  too,  on  the  window-sill,  and  on  the 
table,  rose,  geranium,  and  the  delicate  crimson  cac- 
tus, are  all  so  beautiful,  that  we  think  the  German 
poet  right,  when  he  calls  the  flowers  "  stars  in  the 


252  HYPERION 

firmament  of  the  earth."  Out  of  doors  all  is  quiet. 
Opposite  tlio  window  stands  the  village  school- 
house.  There  are  two  parasite  trees,  with  their 
outspread  branches  nailed  against  the  white  walls, 
like  the  wings  of  culprit  kites.  There  the  rods 
grow.  Under  them,  on  a  bench  at  the  door,  sit 
school-girls ;  and  bai'efoot  urchins  in  breeches  are 
spelling  out  their  lessons.  The  clock  strikes  twelve, 
and  one  by  one  they  disappear,  and  go  into  the 
hive,  like  bees  at  the  sound  of  a  brass  pan.  At 
the  door  of  the  next  house  sits  a  poor  woman,  knit- 
ting in  the  shade  ;  and  in  front  of  her  is  an  aque- 
duct, pouring  its  cool,  clear  water  into  a  rough, 
wooden  trough.  A  travelling  -  carriage,  without 
horses,  stands  at  the  inn-door,  and  a  postilion  in 
red  jacket  is  talking  with  a  blacksmith,  who  wears 
blue  woollen  stockings  and  a  leather  apron.  Be- 
yond is  a  stable,  and  still  farther  a  cluster  of  houses 
and  the  village  church.  They  are  repairing  the 
belfry  and  the  bulbous  steeple.  A  little  farther, 
over  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  you  can  see  Saint 
Wolfgang's  lake.  Water  so  bright  and  beautiful 
hardly  flows  elsewhere.  Green  and  blue  and  sil- 
ver-white run  into  each  other,  with  almost  imper- 
ceptible change.  And  above  are  the  pinnacles 
of  the  mountains  ;  some  bald,  and  rocky,  and 
cone-shaped,  and  others  bold,  and  broad,  and  dark 
with  pines. 

Such  was  the  scene  which  Paul  Flemming  be- 
held from  his  window  a  few  mornings  after 
Berkley's  departure.  The  quiet  of  the  place  had 
soothed  him.  He  had  become  more  calm.  His 
heart  complained  less  loudly  in  the  holy  village 


SAINT   WOLFGANG  253 

silence,  as  we  are  wont  to  lower  our  voices  when 
those  around  us  speak  in  whispers.  He  began  to 
feel  at  times  an  interest  in  the  lowly  things  about 
him.  The  face  of  the  landscape  pleased  him,  but 
more  than  this  the  face  of  the  poor  woman  who  sat 
knitting  in  the  shade.  It  was  a  pale,  meek  coun- 
tenance, with  more  delicacy  in  its  features  than  is 
usual  among  peasantry.  It  wore  also  an  expres- 
sion of  patient  suffering.  As  he  was  looking  at 
her,  a  deformed  child  came  out  of  the  door  and 
hung  upon  her  knees.  She  caressed  it  affection- 
ately. It  was  her  child,  in  whom  she  beheld  her 
own  fair  features  distorted  and  hardly  to  be  recog- 
nized, as  one  sometimes  sees  one's  face  reflected 
from  the  bowl  of  a  spoon. 

The  child's  deformity  and  the  mother's  tender- 
ness interested  the  feelings  of  Flemming.  The 
landlady  told  him  something  of  the  poor  woman's 
history.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  blacksmith,  who 
had  died  soon  after  their  marriage.  But  she  sur- 
vived to  become  a  mother,  as,  in  oaks,  immediately 
after  fecundation,  the  male  flower  fades  and  falls, 
while  the  female  continues  and  ripens  into  perfect 
fruit.  Alas !  her  child  was  deformed.  Yet  she 
looked  upon  him  with  eyes  of  maternal  fondness 
and  pity,  loving  him  still  more  for  his  deformity. 
And  in  her  heart  she  said,  as  the  Mexicans  say  to 
their  new-born  offspring,  —  "  Child,  thou  art  come 
into  the  world  to  suffer.  Endure,  and  hold  thy 
peace."  Though  poor,  she  was  not  entirely  des- 
titute ;  for  her  husband  had  left  her,  besides  the 
deformed  child,  a  life  estate  in  a  tomb  in  the 
churchyard  of   Saint  Gilgen.     During   the  week 


254  HYPERION 

she  labored  for  other  pcoi)le,  and  on  Sundays  for 
herself,  by  going  to  church  and  reading  the  Jiible, 
On  one  of  the  blank  leaves  she  had  recorded  the 
day  of  her  birth,  and  that  of  her  child's,  likewise 
her  marriage  and  her  husband's  death.  Thus  she 
lived,  poor,  patient,  and  resigned.  Her  heart  was 
a  passion-flower,  beai'ing  within  it  the  crown  of 
thorns  and  the  cross  of  Christ.  Her  ideas  of 
heaven  were  few  and  simple.  She  rejected  the 
doctrine  that  it  was  a  place  of  constant  activity, 
and  not  of  repose,  and  believed  that,  when  she  at 
length  reached  it,  she  should  work  no  more,  but 
sit  always  in  a  clean  white  apron,  and  sing 
psalms. 

As  Flemming  sat  meditating  on  these  things,  he 
paid  new  homage  in  his  heart  to  the  beauty  and 
excellence  of  the  female  character.  He  thought 
of  the  absent  and  the  dead ;  and  said,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  :  — 

"  Shall  I  thank  God  for  the  green  summer,  and 
the  mild  air,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  stars,  and  all 
that  makes  this  world  so  beautiful,  and  not  for  the 
good  and  beautiful  beings  I  have  known  in  it  ? 
Has  not  their  presence  been  sweeter  to  me  than 
flowers  ?  Are  they  not  higher  and  holier  than  the 
stars  ?  Are  they  not  more  to  me  than  all  things 
else?" 

Thus  the  morning  passed  away  in  musings  ;  and 
in  the  afternoon,  when  Flemming  was  preparing 
to  go  down  to  the  lake,  as  his  custom  was,  a  car- 
riage drew  up  before  the  door,  and,  to  his  great 
astonishment,  out  jumped  Berkley.  The  first  thing 
he  did  was  to  give  the  postmaster,  who  stood  near 


SAINT   WOLFGANG  255 

the  door,  a  smart  cut  with  his  whip.  The  sufferer 
gently  expostulated,  saying,  — 

"  Pray,  Sir,  don't ;  I  am  lame." 

Whereupon  Berkley  desisted,  and  began  instead 
to  shako  the  postmaster's  wife  by  the  shoulders, 
and  order  his  dinner  in  English.  But  all  this  was 
done  so  good-naturedly,  and  with  such  a  rosy, 
laughing  face,  that  no  offence  was  taken. 

"  So  you  have  returned  much  sooner  than  you 
intended,"  said  Flemming,  after  the  first  friendly 
salutations. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Berldey ;  "  I  became  tired  of 
Ischel,  —  very  tired.  I  did  not  find  there  the 
friends  I  expected.  Now  I  am  going  back  to 
Salzburg,  and  then  to  Gastein.  There  I  shall  cer- 
tainly find  them.     You  must  go  with  me." 

Flemming  declined  the  invitation  ;  and  proposed 
to  Berkley  that  he  should  join  him  in  his  excur- 
sion on  the  lake. 

"  Yon  shall  hear  the  grand  echo  of  the  Falken- 
stein,"  said  he,  "  and  behold  the  scene  of  the  Bridal 
Tragedy ;  and  then  we  will  go  on  as  far  as  the 
village  of  Saint  Wolfgang,  which  you  have  not  yet 
seen,  except  across  the  lake." 

"  Well,  this  afternoon  I  devote  to  you  ;  for  to- 
morrow we  part  once  more,  and  who  knows  when 
we  shall  meet  again  ?  " 

They  went  down  to  the  water's  side  without 
further  delay  ;  and,  taking  a  boat  with  two  oars, 
struck  across  an  elbow  of  the  lake  towards  a  barren 
rock  by  the  eastern  shore,  from  which  a  small  white 
monument  shone  in  the  sun. 

"  That  monument,"  said   one  of   the  boatmen, 


256  HYPERION 

a  stout  young  lad  in  leather  breeches,  "  was  built 
by  a  butcher,  to  the  glory  of  Saint  Wolfgang,  who 
saved  him  from  drowning.  He  was  one  day  riding 
an  ox  to  market  along  the  opposite  bank ;  when 
the  animal,  taking  fright,  sprang  into  the  water, 
and  swam  over  to  this  place,  with  the  butcher  on 
his  back." 

"  And  do  you  think  he  covdd  have  done  this," 
asked  Berkley,  "  if  Saint  Wolfgang  had  not  helped 
him?" 

"  Of  course  not  I  "  answered  leather-breeches  ; 
and  the  Englishman  laughed. 

From  this  point  they  rowed  along  under  the 
shore  to  a  low  promontory,  upon  which  stood  an- 
other monument,  commemorating  a  more  tragical 
event. 

"  This  is  the  place  I  was  speaking  of,"  said 
riemming,  as  the  boatmen  rested  on  their  oars. 
"  The  melancholy  and  singidar  event  it  commem- 
orates happened  more  than  two  centuries  ago. 
There  was  a  bridal  party  here  upon  the  ice,  one 
winter  :  and  in  the  midst  of  the  dance  the  ice 
broke,  and  the  whole  merry  company  were  drowned 
together,  except  the  fiddlers,  who  were  sitting  on 
the  shore." 

They  looked  in  silence  at  the  monument,  and  at 
the  blue  quiet  water,  under  which  the  bones  of  the 
dancers  lay  buried,  hand  in  hand.  The  monument 
is  of  stone,  painted  white,  with  an  overhanging 
roof  to  shelter  it  from  storms.  In  a  niche  in  front 
is  a  small  image  of  the  Saviour,  in  a  sitting  pos- 
ture ;  and  an  inscription  upon  a  marble  tablet 
below  says  that  it  was  placed  there  by  Longinus 


SAINT   WOLFGANG  257 

Walther,  and  his  wife,  Barbara  Juliana  von  Ilain- 
berg;  themselves  long  since  peacefully  crumbled 
to  dust,  side  by  side,  in  some  churchyard. 

"  That  was  breaking  the  ice  with  a  vengeance  !  " 
said  Berkley,  as  they  pushed  out  into  the  lake 
again  ;  and  erelong  they  were  floating  beneath  the 
mighty  precipice  of  Falkenstein  ;  a  steep  wall  of 
rock,  crowned  with  a  chapel  and  a  hermitage, 
where  in  days  of  old  lived  the  holy  Saint  Wolfgang. 
It  is  now  haunted  only  by  an  echo,  so  distinct  and 
loud,  that  one  might  imagine  the  ghost  of  the  de- 
parted saint  to  be  sitting  there,  and  repeating  the 
voices  from  below,  —  not  word  by  word,  but  sen- 
tence by  sentence,  as  if  he  were  passing  them  up 
to  the  recording  angel. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  "  shouted  Berkley ;  and  the 
sound  seemed  to  strike  the  wall  of  stone,  like  the 
flapping  of  steel  plates  ;  —  "  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  How 
are  you  to-day.  Saint  Wolfgang  ?  You  infernal 
old  rascal !  How  is  the  Frau  von  Wolfgang  ?  — 
God  save  great  George,  our  king !  Damn  your 
eyes  !  Hold  your  tongue  !  Ho  !  ho  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
hi!  " 

And  the  words  were  recorded  above  ;  and  a  voice 
repeated  them  with  awful  distinctness  in  the  blue 
depths  overhead  ;  and  Flemming  felt  in  his  inmost 
soul  the  contrast  between  the  holy  heavens,  and 
the  mockery  of  laughter,  and  the  idle  words,  which 
fall  back  from  the  sky  above  us  and  soil  not  its 
purity. 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  at  the  village  of  Saint 
Wolfgang,  threading  a  narrow  street,  above  which 
the  roofs  of  quaint,  picturesque  old  houses  almost 


258  HYPERION 

met.  It  led  them  to  a  Gothic  church  ;  a  magnifi- 
cent one  for  a  village  ;  —  in  front  of  which  was  a 
small  court,  shut  in  by  Italian-looking  houses,  with 
balconies,  and  flowers  at  the  windows.  Here  a 
bronze  fountain  of  elaborate  workmanship  was 
playing  in  the  shade.  On  its  summit  stood  an 
image  of  the  patron  saint  of  the  village ;  and,  run- 
ning round  the  under  lip  of  the  water-basin  below, 
they  read  this  inscription  in  old  German  rhymes :  — 

"  I  am  in  the  honor  of  Saint  Wolfgang  raised. 
Abbot  Wolfgang  Ilabel  of  Emensee,  he  hath  made 
me  for  the  use  and  delight  of  poor  pilgrim  wight. 
Neither  gold  nor  wine  hath  he  ;  at  this  water  shall 
he  merry  be.  In  the  year  of  the  Lord  fifteen  hun- 
dred and  fifteen  hath  the  work  completed  been. 
God  be  praised  !  " 

As  they  were  deciphering  the  rude  characters  of 
this  pious  inscription,  a  village  priest  came  down 
a  high  flight  of  steps  from  the  jiarsonage  near  the 
church,  and  courteously  saluted  the  strangers. 
After  returning  the  salutation,  the  mad  English- 
man, without  preface,  asked  him  how  many  natural 
children  were  annually  born  in  the  parish.  The 
question  seemed  to  astonish  the  good  father  ;  but 
he  answered  it  civilly,  as  he  did  several  other  ques- 
tions, which  Flemming  thought  rather  indiscreet, 
to  say  the  least. 

"  You  will  excuse  our  curiosity,"  said  he  to  the 
priest,  by  way  of  apology.  "  We  are  strangers 
from  distant  countries.  My  friend  is  an  English- 
man, and  I  an  American." 

Berkley,  however,  was  not  so  easily  silenced. 
After  a  few  moments'  conversation,  he  broke  out 


SAINT   WOLFGANG  259 

into  most  audacious  Latin,  in  which  the  only 
words  clearly  intelligible  were  :  — 

"  Plurimum  reverende,  in  Cliristo  religiosissime 
ac  clarissime  Domine,  necnon  et  amice  observan- 
dissime  !  Petrus  sic  est  locutus :  '  Nee  argentum 
mihi,  nee  aurum  est ;  sed  quod  habeo,  hoc  tibi  do ; 
surge  et  ambula.' " 

He  seemed  to  be  speaking  of  the  fountain.  The 
priest  answered  meekly,  — 

"  Non  intellexi,  Domine  !  " 

But  Berkley  continued  with  great  volubility  to 
speak  of  his  being  a  stranger  in  the  land,  and  all 
men  being  strangers  upon  earth,  and  hoping  to 
meet  the  good  priest  hereafter  in  the  kingdom 
of  heaven.  The  priest  seemed  confoimded  and 
abashed.  Through  the  mist  of  a  strange  pronun- 
ciation, he  could  recognize  only  here  and  there  a 
familiar  word.  He  took  out  his  snuff-box ;  and 
tried  to  quote  a  passage  from  Saint  Paul :  — 

"  Ut  dixit  Sanctus  Paulus  :  Qui  bene  facit  "  — 

Here  his  memory  failed  him,  or,  as  the  French 
say,  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  Latin,  and,  stretch- 
ing forth  his  long  forefinger,  he  concluded  in  Ger- 
man :  — 

"  Yes  ;  —  I  don't  —  so  clearly  remember  —  what 
he  did  say." 

The  Englishman  helped  him  through  with  a 
moral  phrase  ;  and  then,  pulling  off  his  hat,  ex- 
claimed very  solemnly :  — 

"  Vale,  Domine  doctissime  et  reverendissime  !  " 

And  the  Dominie,  as  if  pursued  by  a  demon, 
made  a  sudden  and  precipitate  retreat  down  a 
flight  of  steps  into  the  street. 


260  HYPERION 

"  There  !  "  said  Berkley,  laughing,  "  I  beat  him 
at  his  own  weapons.  What  do  you  say  of  my 
Latin  ?  " 

"  I  say  of  it,"  replied  Flemming,  "  what  IIolo- 
f  ernes  said  of  Sir  Nathaniel's  :  —  '  Priscian  a  little 
scratched  ;  't  will  serve.'  I  think  I  have  heard 
better.  But  what  a  whim  !  I  thought  I  should 
have  laughed  aloud." 

They  were  still  sitting  by  the  bronze  fountain, 
when  the  priest  returned,  accompanied  by  a  short 
man,  with  large  feet,  and  a  long  blue  surtout,  so 
greasy  that  it  reminded  one  of  Polilla's  in  the 
Spanish  play,  which  was  lined  with  slices  of  pork. 
His  countenance  was  broad  and  placid,  but  his 
blue  eyes  gleamed  with  a  wild,  mysterious,  sorrow- 
ful expression.  Flemming  thought  the  Latin  con- 
test was  to  be  renewed,  with  more  powder  and 
heavier  guns.  He  was  mistaken.  The  stranger 
saluted  him  in  German,  and  said,  that,  having 
heard  he  was  from  America,  he  had  come  to  ques- 
tion him  about  that  distant  country,  for  which  he 
was  on  the  point  of  embarking.  There  was  noth- 
ing pecidiar  in  his  manner,  nor  in  the  questions  he 
asked,  nor  the  remarks  he  made.  They  were  the 
usual  questions  and  remarks  about  cities  and  cli- 
mate and  sailing  the  sea.  At  length  Flemming 
asked  him  the  object  of  his  journey  to  America. 
The  stranger  came  close  to  him,  and,  lowering  his 
voice,  said  very  solemnly :  — 

"  That  holy  man,  Frederick  Baraga,  missionary 
among  the  Indians  at  Lacroix,  on  Lake  Superior, 
has  returned  to  his  fatherland,  Krain  ;  and  I  am 
chosen  by  Heaven  to  go  forth  as  Minister  Extraor- 


SAINT  WOLFGANG  261 

dinary  of  Christ,  to  unite  all  nations  and  people  in 
one  church !  " 

Flemming  almost  started  at  the  singular  earnest- 
ness with  which  he  uttered  these  words ;  and 
looked  at  him  attentively,  thinking  to  see  the  face 
of  a  madman.  But  the  modest,  unassuming  look 
of  that  placid  coimtenance  was  unchanged ;  only 
in  the  eyes  burned  a  mysterious  light,  as  if  candles 
had  been  lighted  in  the  brain,  to  magnify  the  day- 
light there. 

"  It  is  truly  a  high  vocation,"  said  he,  in  reply. 
"  But  are  you  sure  that  this  is  no  hallucination  ? 
Are  you  certain  that  you  have  been  chosen  by 
Heaven  for  this  great  work  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain,"  replied  the  German,  in  a  tone 
of  great  calmness  and  sincerity ;  "  and  if  Saint 
Peter  and  Saint  Paul  should  come  down  from 
heaven  to  assure  me  of  it,  my  faith  would  be  no 
stronger  than  it  now  is.  It  has  been  declared  to 
me  by  many  signs  and  wonders.  I  can  no  longer 
doubt  nor  hesitate.  I  have  already  heard  the 
voice  of  the  Spirit,  speaking  to  me  at  night ;  and  I 
know  that  I  am  an  Apostle,  and  chosen  for  this 
work." 

Such  was  the  calm  enthusiasm  with  which  he 
spoke,  that  Flemming  coidd  not  choose  but  listen. 
He  felt  interested  in  this  strange  being.  There 
was  something  awe-inspiring  in  the  spirit  that  pos- 
sessed him.     After  a  short  pause,  he  continued  :  — 

"  If  you  wish  to  know  who  I  am,  I  can  tell  you 
in  few  words.  I  think  you  will  not  find  the  story 
without  interest." 

He  then  went  on  to  relate  the  circimistances  re- 
corded in  the  following  chapter. 


262  HYPERION 

CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE   STORY  OF   BROTHER    BERNARDUS. 

"  I  was  born  in  the  city  of  Stein,  in  the  land 
of  Krain.  My  pious  mother,  Gertrude,  sang  me 
psahus  and  spiritual  songs  in  childhood ;  and 
often,  when  I  awoke  in  the  night,  I  saw  her  still 
sitting  patiently  at  her  work,  by  the  stove,  and 
heard  her  singing  those  hymns  of  heaven,  or  pray- 
ing in  the  midnight  darkness  when  her  work  was 
done.  It  was  for  me  she  prayed.  Thus,  from  my 
earliest  childhood,  I  breathed  the  breath  of  pious 
aspirations.  Afterwards  I  went  to  Laybach,  as  a 
student  of  theology ;  and,  after  the  usual  course 
of  study,  was  ordained  a  priest.  I  went  forth  to 
the  care  of  souls ;  my  owti  soul  filled  with  the 
faith  that  erelong  all  people  would  be  united  in 
one  church.  Yet  at  times  my  heart  was  heavy,  to 
behold  how  many  nations  there  are  who  have  not 
heard  of  Christ;  and  how  those  who  are  called 
Christians  are  divided  into  numberless  sects,  and 
how  among  these  are  many  who  are  Christians  in 
name  only.  I  determined  to  devote  myself  to  the 
great  work  of  the  one  Church  Universal,  and,  for 
this  purpose,  to  give  mj'^self  wholly  up  to  the  study 
of  the  Evangelists  and  the  Fathers.  I  retired  to 
the  Benedictine  cloister  of  Saint  Paul  in  the  valley 
of  Lavant.  The  father-confessor  in  the  nunnery 
of  Laak,  where  I  then  lived,  strengthened  me  in 
tliis  resolve.  I  had  long  walked  with  this  angel 
of  God  in  a  human  form,  and  his  parting  benedic- 
tion sank  deep  into  my  soul.     The  Prince-Abbot 


STORY  OF  BROTHER  BERNARDUS       263 

Berthold,  of  blessed  memory,  was  then  head  of  the 
Benedictine  convent.  He  received  me  kindly,  and 
led  me  to  the  library,  where  I  gazed  with  secret 
rapture  on  the  vast  folios  of  the  Christian  Fathers, 
from  which,  as  from  an  arsenal,  I  was  to  draw  the 
weapons  of  holy  warfare.  In  the  study  of  these 
the  year  of  my  novitiate  passed.  I  became  a 
Franciscan  friar,  and  took  the  name  of  Brother 
Bernardus.  Yet  my  course  of  life  remained  un- 
changed. I  seldom  left  the  cloister;  but  sat  in 
my  cell,  and  pored  over  those  tomes  of  holy  wis- 
dom. About  this  time  the  aged  confessor  in  Laak 
departed  this  life.  His  death  was  made  known  to 
me  in  a  dream.  It  must  have  been  after  mid- 
night, when  I  thought  that  I  came  into  the  church, 
which  was  brilliantly  lighted  up.  The  dead  body 
of  the  venerable  saint  was  brought  in,  attended  by 
a  great  crowd.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  go  up 
into  the  pulpit  and  pronounce  his  funeral  oration  ; 
and  as  I  ascended  the  stairs  the  words  of  my  text 
came  into  my  mind,  —  '  Blessed  in  the  sight  of  the 
Lord  is  the  death  of  his  saints.'  My  funeral  ser- 
mon ended  in  a  strain  of  exultation ;  and  I  awoke 
with  '  Amen !  '  upon  my  lips.  A  few  days  after- 
wards, I  heard  that  on  that  night  the  old  man  died. 
After  this  event,  I  became  restless  and  melan- 
choly. I  strove  in  vain  to  drive  away  my  gloomy 
thoughts.  I  could  no  longer  study.  I  was  no 
longer  contented  in  the  cloister.  I  even  thought 
of  leaving  it. 

"  One  night,  I  had  gone  to  bed  early,  according 
to  my  custom,  and  had  fallen  asleep.  Suddenly  I 
was  awakened  by  a  bright  and  wonderful  light, 


264  HYPERION 

which  shone  all  about  me,  and  filled  me  with 
heavenly  rapture.  Shortly  after,  I  heard  a  voice, 
which  pronounced  distinctly  these  words,  in  the 
Sclavonian  tongue :  — '  Remain  in  the  cloister ! ' 
It  was  the  voice  of  my  departed  mother.  I  was 
fidly  awake,  yet  saw  nothing  but  the  bright  light, 
which  disappeared  when  the  words  had  been 
spoken.  Still  it  was  broad  daylight  in  my  cham- 
ber. I  thought  I  had  slept  beyond  my  usual  hour. 
I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  just  one  o'clock 
after  midnight.  Suddenly  the  daylight  vanished, 
and  it  was  dark.  In  the  morning  I  arose,  as  if 
new-born,  through  the  wonderful  light  and  the 
words  of  my  mother's  voice.  It  was  no  dream. 
I  knew  it  was  the  will  of  God  that  I  should  stay, 
and  I  could  again  give  myself  up  to  quiet  study. 
I  read  the  whole  Bible  through  once  more  in  the 
original  text ;  and  went  on  with  the  Fathers  in 
chronological  order.  Often,  after  the  apparition 
of  the  light,  I  awoke  at  the  same  hour,  and  though 
I  heard  no  voice  and  saw  no  light,  yet  was  re- 
freshed with  heavenly  consolation. 

"  Not  long  after  this,  an  important  event  hap- 
pened in  the  cloister.  In  the  absence  of  the  deacon 
of  the  abbey,  I  was  to  preach  the  Thanksgi\ang 
sermon  of  Harvest-home.  During  the  week,  the 
Prince- Abbot  Berthold  gave  up  the  ghost,  and  my 
sermon  became  at  once  a  thanksgiving  and  fimeral 
sermon.  Perhaps  it  may  not  be  unworthy  of  no- 
tice, that  I  was  thus  called  to  pronounce  the  burial 
discourse  over  the  body  of  the  last  reigning  spir- 
itual Prince-Abbot  in  Germany.  He  was  a  man 
of  God,  and  worthy  of  this  honor. 


STORY  OF  BROTHER  BERNARDUS       266 

"  One  year  after  this  event,  I  was  appointed 
professor  of  Biblical  Hermeneutics  in  Klagenfurt, 
and  left  the  abbey  forever.  In  Klagenfurt  I  re- 
mained ten  years,  dwelling  in  the  same  house,  and 
eating  at  the  same  table,  with  seventeen  other  Pro- 
fessors. Their  conversation  naturally  suggested 
new  topics  of  study,  and  brought  to  my  notice 
books  which  I  had  never  before  seen.  One  day  I 
heard  at  table  that  Maurus  Cappellari,  a  monk  of 
Camaldoli,  had  been  elected  Pope,  under  the  name 
of  Gregory  Sixteenth.  He  was  spoken  of  as  a 
very  learned  man,  who  had  written  many  books. 
At  this  time  I  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  Pope's 
infallibility ;  and  when  I  heard  these  books  men- 
tioned, there  arose  in  me  an  irresistible  longing  to 
read  them.  I  inquired  for  them ;  but  they  were 
nowhere  to  be  had.  At  length  I  heard  that  his 
most  important  work,  '  The  Triumph  of  the  Holy 
See  and  of  the  Church,'  had  been  translated  into 
German  and  published  in  Augsburg.  Erelong  the 
precious  volume  was  in  my  hands.  I  began  to 
read  it  with  the  profoundest  awe.  The  farther  I 
read,  the  more  my  wonder  grew.  The  subject  was 
of  the  deepest  interest  to  me.  I  could  not  lay  the 
book  out  of  my  hand,  till  I  had  read  it  through 
with  the  closest  attention.  Now  at  length  my 
eyes  were  opened.  I  saw  before  me  a  monk  who 
had  been  educated  in  an  Italian  cloister ;  who  in- 
deed had  read  much,  and  yet  only  what  was  calcu- 
lated to  strengthen  him  in  the  prejudices  of  his 
childhood,  and  who  had  entirely  neglected  those 
studies  upon  which  a  bishop  should  most  rely,  in 
order  to  work  out  the  salvation  of  man.     I  per- 


266  HYPERION 

ceived,  at  the  same  time,  that  this  was  the  strong- 
est instrument  for  battering  down  the  walls  which 
separate  Christian  from  Christian.  I  saw,  though 
as  yet  dimly,  the  way  in  which  the  union  of  Chris- 
tians in  the  one  true  Church  was  to  be  accom- 
plished. I  knew  not  whether  to  be  most  astonished 
at  my  own  blindness,  that,  in  all  my  previous 
studies,  I  had  not  perceived  what  the  reading  of 
this  single  book  made  manifest  to  me  ;  or  at  the 
blindness  of  the  Pope,  who  had  undertaken  to  jus- 
tify such  follies,  without  perceiving  that  at  the 
same  moment  he  was  himself  lying  in  fatal  error. 
But  since  I  have  learned  more  thoroughly  the  ways 
of  the  Lord,  1  am  now  no  more  astonished  at  this, 
but  pray  only  to  Divine  Providence,  who  so  myste- 
riously prepares  all  people  to  be  united  in  one  true 
Church.  I  no  longer  believed  in  the  Pope's  infal- 
libility ;  nay,  I  believed  even,  that,  to  the  great 
injury  of  humanity,  he  lay  in  fatal  error.  I  felt, 
moreover,  that  now  the  time  had  fully  come  when 
I  should  publicly  show  myself,  and  found  in 
America  a  parish  and  a  school,  and  become  the 
spiritual  guide  of  men  and  the  schoolmaster  of 
children. 

"  It  was  then,  and  on  that  account,  that  I  wrote 
in  the  Latin  tongue  my  great  work  on  Biblical 
Hermeneutics.  But  in  Germany  it  cannot  be  pub- 
lished. The  Austrian  censor  of  the  press  cannot 
find  time  to  read  it ;  thougli  I  think  that,  if  I  have 
spent  so  many  laborious  days  and  sleepless  nights 
in  writing  it,  this  man  ought  likewise  to  find  time 
enough  not  only  to  read  it,  but  to  examine  all 
the  grounds  of  my  reasoning,  and  point  out  to  me 


STORY  OF  BROTHER  BERNARDUS       267 

my  errors,  if  he  can  find  any.  Notwithstanding, 
the  Spirit  gave  me  no  repose,  but  urged  me  ever 
mightily  on  to  the  perfection  of  my  great  work. 

"  One  morning  I  sat  writing,  under  peculiar  in- 
fluences of  the  Spirit,  upon  the  Confusion  of 
Tongues,  the  Division  of  the  People,  and  the  im- 
portance of  the  study  of  Comparative  Philology, 
in  reference  to  their  union  in  one  Church.  So 
wrapped  was  I  in  the  thought  that  1  came  late 
into  my  lecture-room ;  and  after  lecture  returned 
to  my  chamber,  where  I  wrote  till  the  clock  struck 
twelve.  At  dinner,  one  of  the  Professors  asked  if 
any  one  had  seen  the  star  about  which  so  much 
was  said.  The  Professor  of  Physics  said  that  the 
student  Johannes  Schminke  had  come  to  him  in 
the  greatest  haste,  and  besought  him  to  go  out  and 
see  the  wonderful  star ;  but,  being  incredulous 
about  it,  he  made  no  haste,  and  when  they  came 
into  the  street  the  star  had  disappeared.  When 
I  heard  the  star  spoken  of,  my  soul  was  filled  with 
rapture ;  and  a  voice  within  me  seemed  to  say, 
'  The  great  time  is  approaching ;  labor  unweariedly 
in  thy  work.'  I  sought  out  the  student,  and,  like 
Herod,  inquired  diligently  at  what  time  the  star 
appeared.  He  informed  me  that,  just  as  the  clock 
was  striking  eight  in  the  morning,  he  went  out  of 
his  house  to  go  to  the  college,  and  saw  on  the 
square  a  crowd  looking  at  a  bright  star.  It  was 
the  very  hour  when  I  was  writing  alone  in  my 
chamber  on  the  importance  of  Comparative  Phi- 
lology in  bringing  about  the  union  of  all  nations. 
I  felt  that  my  hour  had  come.  Strangely  moved, 
I  walked  up  and  down  my  chamber.     The  evening 


268  HYPERION 

twilight  came  on,  I  lighted  my  lamp,  and  drew 
the  green  curtains  before  the  windows,  and  sat 
down  to  read.  But  hardly  had  I  taken  the  book 
into  my  hand,  when  the  Spirit  began  to  move  me, 
and  urge  me  then  to  make  my  last  decision  and 
resolve.  I  made  a  secret  vow  that  I  would  under- 
take the  voyage  to  America.  Suddenly  my  trou- 
bled thoughts  were  still.  An  unwonted  rapture 
filled  my  heart.  I  sat  and  read  till  the  supper-bell 
rang.  They  were  speaking  at  table  of  a  red,  glar- 
ing meteor,  which  had  just  been  seen  in  the  air, 
southeast  from  Klagenfurt,  and  had  suddenly  dis- 
appeared with  a  dull,  hollow  sound.  It  was  the 
very  moment  at  which  I  had  taken  my  final  reso- 
lution to  leave  my  native  land.  Every  great  pur- 
pose and  event  of  my  life  seemed  heralded  and 
attended  by  divine  messengers,  —  the  voices  of  the 
dead,  the  bright  morning  star  shining  in  the  clear 
sunshine,  and  the  red  meteor  in  the  evening  twi- 
light. 

"  I  now  began  seriously  to  prepare  for  my  de- 
parture. The  chamber  I  occupied  had  once  been 
the  library  of  a  Franciscan  convent.  Only  a  thick 
wall  separated  it  from  the  church.  In  this  wall 
was  a  niche,  with  heavy  folding-doors,  which  had 
served  the  Franciscans  as  a  repository  for  pro- 
hibited books.  Here  also  I  kept  my  papers  and 
my  great  work  on  Biblical  Hermeneutics.  The 
inside  of  the  doors  was  covered  with  horrible  cari- 
catures of  Luther,  Melancthon,  Calvin,  and  other 
great  men.  I  used  often  to  look  at  them  with  the 
deepest  melancholy,  when  I  thought  that  these 
great  men  likewise  had  labored  upon  earth,  and 


STORY  OF  BROTHER  BERNARDUS       269 

fought  with  Satan  in  the  Church.  But  they  were 
persecuted,  denounced,  condemned  to  die.  So 
perhaps  will  it  be  with  me.  I  thought  of  this 
often,  and  armed  myself  against  the  fear  of  death. 
I  was  in  constant  apprehension,  lest  the  police 
should  search  my  chamber  during  my  absence,  and, 
by  examining'  my  papers,  discover  my  doctrine  and 
designs.  But  the  Spirit  said  to  me  :  '  Be  of  good 
cheer ;  I  will  so  blind  the  eyes  of  thy  enemies, 
that  it  shall  not  once  occur  to  them  to  think  of 
thy  writings.' 

"  At  length,  after  many  difficulties  and  tempta- 
tions of  the  Devil,  I  am  on  my  way  to  America. 
Yesterday  I  took  leave  of  my  dearest  friend, 
Gregory  Kuscher,  in  Hallstadt.  He  seemed  filled 
with  the  Spirit  of  God,  and  has  wonderfully 
strengthened  me  in  my  purpose.  All  the  hosts  of 
heaven  looked  on,  and  were  glad.  The  old  man 
kissed  me,  at  parting ;  and  I  ascended  the  moun- 
tain as  if  angels  bore  me  up  in  their  arms.  Near 
the  summit  lay  a  newly  fallen  avalanche,  over 
which,  as  yet,  no  footsteps  had  passed.  This  was 
my  last  temptation.  '  Ha  !  '  cried  I  aloud,  '  Satan 
has  prepared  a  snare  for  me ;  but  I  will  conquer 
him  with  godly  weapons.'  I  sprang  over  the 
treacherous  snow,  with  greater  faith  than  St.  Peter 
walked  the  waters  of  the  Lake  of  Galilee  ;  and 
came  down  the  valley,  while  the  mountain  peaks 
yet  shone  in  the  setting  sun.  God  smiles  upon 
me.  I  go  forth  full  of  hopeful  courage.  On 
Christmas  next,  I  shall  excommunicate  the  Pope." 

Saying  these  words,  he  slowly  and  solemnly 
took  his   leave,  like  one   conscious  of  the  great 


270  HYPERION 

events  wliicli  awaited  him,  and  withdrew  with  the 
other  priest  into  the  church.  Fleniming  could  not 
smile  as  Berldey  did  :  for  in  the  solitary,  singular 
enthusiast,  who  had  just  left  them,  he  saw  only 
another  melancholy  victim  to  solitude  and  over- 
labor of  the  brain  ;  and  felt  how  painful  a  thing  it 
is  thus  to  become  unconsciously  the  almsman  of 
other  men's  sympathies,  a  kind  of  blind  beggar  for 
the  charity  of  a  good  wish  or  a  prayer. 

The  sun  was  now  setting.  Silently  they  floated 
back  to  Saint  Gilgen,  amid  the  cool  evening 
shadows.  The  village  clock  struck  nine,  as  they 
landed ;  and  as  Berkley  was  to  depart  early  in  the 
morning,  he  went  to  bed  betimes.  On  bidding 
riemming  good  night,  he  said :  — 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  in  the  morning ;  so  good 
by,  and  God  bless  you.  Remember  my  parting 
words.  Never  mind  trifles.  In  this  world  a  man 
must  either  be  anvil  or  hammer.  Care  killed  a 
cat !  " 

"  I  have  heard  you  say  that  so  often,"  replied 
riemming,  laughing,  "  that  I  begin  to  believe  it. 
But  I  wonder  if  Care  shaved  his  left  eyebrow 
after  doing  the  deed,  as  the  ancient  Egyptians  used 
to  do !  " 

"  Aha  !  now  you  are  sweeping  cobwebs  from  the 
sky  !     Good  night  !     Good  night  !  " 

A  sorrowful  event  happened  in  the  neighborhood 
that  night.  The  widow's  child  died  suddenly. 
"  Woe  is  me  !  "  —  thus  mourns  the  childless  mother 
in  one  of  the  funeral  songs  of  Greenland ;  —  "  Woe 
is  me,  that  I  should  gaze  upon  thy  place  and  find 
it  vacant !     In  vain  for  thee  thy  mother  dries  the 


FOOTPRINTS   OF  ANGELS  271 

sea-drenched  garments !  "  Not  in  these  words, 
but  in  thoughts  like  these,  did  the  poor  mother 
bewail  the  death  of  her  child,  thinking  mostly  of 
the  vacant  place,  and  the  daily  cares  and  solicitudes 
of  maternal  love.  Flemming  saw  a  light  in  her 
chamber  and  shadows  moving  to  and  fro,  as  he 
stood  by  the  window,  gazing  into  the  starry,  silent 
sky.  But  he  little  thought  of  the  awful  domestic 
tragedy  which  was  even  then  enacted  behind  those 
thin  curtains  ! 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

FOOTPRINTS   OF  ANGELS. 

It  was  Sunday  morning ;  and  the  church  bells 
were  all  ringing  together.  From  the  neighboring 
villages  came  the  solemn,  joyful  sounds,  floating 
through  the  sunny  air,  mellow  and  faint  and  low, 
—  all  mingling  into  one  harmonious  chime,  like  the 
sound  of  some  distant  organ  in  heaven.  Anon 
they  ceased,  and  the  woods,  and  the  clouds,  and 
the  whole  village,  and  the  very  air  itself,  seemed  to 
pray,  —  so  silent  was  it  everywhere. 

Two  venerable  old  men  — =  high-priests  and  patri- 
archs were  they  in  the  land  —  went  up  the  pulpit 
stairs,  as  Moses  and  Aaron  went  up  Mount  Hor,  in 
the  sight  of  all  the  congregation,  —  for  the  pulpit 
stairs  were  in  front,  and  very  high. 

Paul  Flemming  will  never  forget  the  sermon  he 
heard  that  day,  —  no,  not  even  if  he  should  live  to 
be  as  old  as  he  who  preached  it.  The  text  was,  "  I 
know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth."     It  was  meant  to 


272  HYPERION 

console  the  pious,  poor  widow,  who  sat  right  below 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit  stairs,  all  in  black, 
and  her  heart  breaking.  He  said  nothing  of  the 
terrors  of  death,  nor  of  the  gloom  of  the  narrow 
house ;  but,  looking  beyond  these  things,  as  mere 
circumstances  to  which  the  imagination  mainly 
gives  importance,  he  told  his  hearers  of  the  in- 
nocence of  childhood  upon  earth,  and  the  holiness 
of  childhood  in  heaven,  and  how  the  beautiful  Lord 
Jesus  was  once  a  little  child,  and  now  in  heaven 
the  spirits  of  little  children  walked  with  him,  and 
gathered  flowers  in  the  fields  of  Paradise.  Good 
old  man !  In  behalf  of  humanity,  I  thank  thee 
for  these  benignant  words !  And  still  more  than 
I,  the  bereaved  mother  thanked  thee  ;  and  from 
that  hour,  though  she  wept  in  secret  for  her  child, 
yet 

She  knew  he  was  with  Jesus 
And  she  asked  him  not  again. 

After  the  sermon,  Paul  Flemming  walked  forth 
alone  into  the  churchyard.  There  was  no  one 
there,  save  a  little  boy,  who  was  fishing  with  a  pin 
hook  in  a  grave  half  full  of  water.  But  a  few 
moments  afterward,  through  the  arched  gateway 
under  the  belfry  came  a  funeral  procession.  At 
its  head  walked'  a  priest  in  white  surplice,  chant- 
ing. Peasants,  old  and  young,  followed  him,  with 
burning  tapers  in  their  hands.  A  young  girl  car- 
ried in  her  arms  a  dead  child,  wrapped  in  its  little 
winding-sheet.  The  grave  was  close  under  the 
wall,  by  the  church-door.  A  vase  of  holy  water 
stood  beside  it.  The  sexton  took  the  child  from 
the  girl's  arms,  and  put  it  into  a  cof&n  ;  and,  as  he 


FOOTPRINTS   OF  ANGELS  273 

placed  it  in  the  grave,  the  girl  held  over  it  a  cross 
wreathed  with  roses,  and  the  priest  and  peasants 
sang  a  funeral  hymn.  When  this  was  over,  the 
priest  sprinkled  the  grave  and  the  crowd  with  holy 
water ;  and  then  they  all  went  into  the  church, 
each  one  stopping,  as  he  passed  the  grave,  to  throw 
a  handful  of  earth  into  it,  and  sprinkle  it  with  the 
hyssop. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  the  voice  of  the 
priest  was  heard  saying  mass  in  the  church,  and 
riemming  saw  the  toothless  old  sexton  treading, 
with  his  clouted  shoes,  the  fresh  earth  into  the 
grave  of  the  little  child.  He  approached  him,  and 
asked  the  age  of  the  deceased.  The  sexton  leaned 
a  moment  on  his  spade,  and,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, replied :  — 

"  Only  an  hour  or  two.  It  was  born  in  the 
night,  and  died  this  morning  early." 

"  A  brief  existence,"  said  Flemming.  "  The 
child  seems  to  have  been  born  only  to  be  buried 
and  have  its  name  recorded  on  a  wooden  tomb- 
stone." 

The  sexton  went  on  with  his  work,  and  made  no 
reply.  Flemming  still  lingered  among  the  graves, 
gazing  with  wonder  at  the  strange  devices  by  which 
man  has  rendered  death  horrible  and  the  grave 
loathsome. 

In  the  temple  of  Juno  at  Elis,  Sleep  and  his 
twin-brother.  Death,  were  represented  as  children 
reposing  in  the  arms  of  Night.  On  various  funeral 
monuments  of  the  ancients  the  Genius  of  Death  is 
sculptured  as  a  beautiful  youth,  leaning  on  an  in- 
verted torch,  in  the  attitude  of  repose,  his  wings 


274  HYPERION 

folded  and  his  feet  crossed.  In  such  peaceful  and 
attractive  forms  did  the  imagination  of  ancient 
poets  and  sculptors  represent  death.  And  these 
were  men  in  whose  souls  the  religion  of  Nature 
was  like  the  light  of  stars,  beautiful,  but  faint  and 
cold  !  Strange,  that,  in  later  days,  this  angel  of 
God,  which  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand  into  the 
"  land  of  the  great  departed,  into  the  silent  land," 
should  have  been  transformed  into  a  monstrous 
and  terrific  thing !  Such  is  the  sjiectral  rider  on 
the  white  horse  ;  —  such  the  ghastly  skeleton  with 
scythe  and  hour-glass,  —  the  Reaper,  whose  name 
is  Death ! 

One  of  the  most  popular  themes  of  poetry  and 
painting  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  continuing  down 
even  into  modern  times,  was  the  Dance  of  Death. 
In  almost  all  languages  is  it  written,  —  the  ap- 
parition of  the  grim  spectre  putting  a  sudden 
stop  to  all  business,  and  leading  men  away  into 
the  "  remarkable  retirement "  of  the  grave.  It  is 
written  in  an  ancient  Spanish  poem,  and  painted 
on  a  wooden  bridge  in  Switzerland.  The  designs 
of  Holbein  are  well  known.  The  most  striking 
among  them  is  that,  where,  from  a  group  of  chil- 
dren sitting  round  a  cottage  hearth,  Death  has 
taken  one  by  the  hand,  and  is  leading  it  out  of  the 
door.  Quietly  and  xmresisting  goes  the  little  child, 
and  in  its  countenance  no  grief,  but  wonder  only ; 
while  the  other  children  are  weeping  and  stretch- 
ing forth  their  hands  in  vain  towards  their  depart- 
ing brother.  It  is  a  beautiful  design,  in  all  save 
the  skeleton.  An  angel  had  been  better,  with 
folded  wings,  and  torch  inverted. 


FOOTPRINTS  OF  ANGELS  275 

And  now  the  sun  was  growing  high  and  warm. 
A  little  chapel,  whose  door  stood  open,  seemed  to 
invite  Flemmiug  to  enter  and  enjoy  the  grateful 
coolness.  He  went  in.  There  was  no  one  there. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  paintings  and  sculp- 
ture of  the  rudest  kind,  and  with  a  few  funeral 
tablets.  There  was  nothing  there  to  move  the 
heart  to  devotion  ;  but  in  that  hour  the  heart  of 
Flemraing  was  weak,  —  weak  as  a  child's.  He 
bowed  his  stubborn  knees,  and  wept.  And,  oh, 
how  many  disappointed  hopes,  how  many  bitter 
recollections,  how  much  of  wounded  pride  and  un- 
requited love,  were  in  those  tears  through  which 
he  read,  on  a  marble  tablet  in  the  chapel  wall  oppo- 
site, this  singular  inscription  :  — 

"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It  comes 
not  back  again.  Wisely  improve  the  Present.  It 
is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future, 
without  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart." 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  unknown  tenant  of 
that  grave  had  opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and  spoken 
to  him  the  words  of  consolation,  which  his  soul 
needed,  and  which  no  friend  had  yet  spoken.  In  a 
moment  the  anguish  of  his  thoughts  was  still.  The 
stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  door  of  his  heart ; 
death  was  no  longer  there,  but  an  angel  clothed  in 
white.  He  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  were  no  more 
bleared  with  tears  ;  and,  looking  into  the  bright 
morning  heaven,  he  said :  — 

"  I  will  be  strong  !  " 

Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with  painful 
longings  to  behold  once  more  the  faces  of  their  de- 
parted friends ;  and  as  they  gaze  upon  them,  lying 


276  HYPERION 

there  so  peacefully  with  the  semblance  that  they 
wore  on  earth,  the  sweet  brcatli  of  heaven  touches 
them,  and  the  features  crumble  and  fall  together, 
and  are  but  dust.  So  did  his  soul  then  descend 
for  the  last  time  into  the  great  tomb  of  the  Past, 
with  painful  longings  to  behold  once  more  the  dear 
faces  of  those  he  had  loved ;  and  the  sweet  breath 
of  heaven  touched  them,  and  they  would  not  stay, 
but  crumbled  away  and  perished  as  he  gazed. 
They,  too,  were  dust.  And  thus,  far-sounding,  he 
heard  the  great  gate  of  the  Past  shut  behind  him, 
as  the  divine  poet  did  the  gate  of  Paradise,  when 
the  angel  pointed  him  the  way  up  the  Holy  Moun- 
tain; and  to  him  likewise  was  it  forbidden  to 
look  back. 

In  the  life  of  every  man  there  are  sudden  tran- 
sitions of  feeling,  which  seem  almost  miraculous. 
At  once,  as  if  some  magician  had  touched  the 
heavens  and  the  earth,  the  dark  clouds  melt  into 
the  air,  the  wind  falls,  and  serenity  succeeds  the 
storm.  The  causes  which  produce  these  sudden 
changes  may  have  been  long  at  work  within  us  ; 
but  the  changes  themselves  are  instantaneous,  and 
apparently  without  sufficient  cause.  It  was  so  with 
Plemming ;  and  from  that  hour  forth  he  resolved 
that  he  would  no  longer  veer  with  every  shifting 
wind  of  circumstance,  —  no  longer  be  a  child's 
plaything  in  the  hands  of  Fate,  which  we  ourselves 
do  make  or  mar.  He  resolved  henceforward  not 
to  lean  on  others,  but  to  walk  self-confident  and 
self-possessed  ;  no  longer  to  waste  his  years  in  vain 
regrets,  nor  w^ait  the  f  ulfihnent  of  boundless  hopes 
and  Ladiscreet  desires,  but  to  live  in  the  Present 


FOOTPRINTS   OF  ANGELS  277 

wisely,  alike  forgetful  of  the  Past,  and  careless  of 
what  the  mysterious  Future  might  bring.  And 
froni  that  moment  he  was  calm  and  strong ;  he  was 
reconciled  witli  himseK.  His  thoughts  turned  to 
his  distant  home  beyond  the  sea.  An  indescribable 
sweet  feeling  rose  within  him. 

"  Thither  will  I  turn  my  wandering  footsteps," 
said  he,  "  and  be  a  man  among  men,  and  no  longer 
a  dreamer  among  shadows.  Henceforth  be  mine  a 
life  of  action  and  reality  !  I  will  work  in  my  own 
sphere,  nor  wish  it  other  than  it  is.  This  alone  is 
health  and  happiness.     This  alone  is  Life,  — 

"  Life  that  shall  send 
A  challenge  to  its  end, 
And  when  it  conies,  say.  Welcome,  friend  1 

Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections,  this 
wise  resolve,  sooner?  Can  such  a  simple  result 
spring  only  from  the  long  and  intricate  process  of 
experience  ?  Alas!  it  is  not  till  time,  with  reck- 
less hand,  has  torn  out  half  the  leaves  from  the 
Book  of  Human  Life,  to  light  the  fires  of  passion 
with,  from  day  to  day,  that  man  begins  to  see  that 
the  leaves  which  remain  are  few  in  number,  and  to 
remember,  faintly  at  first,  and  then  more  clearly, 
that  upon  the  earlier  pages  of  that  book  was  writ- 
ten a  story  of  happy  innocence,  which  he  would  fain 
read  over  again.  Then  come  listless  irresolution, 
and  the  inevitable  inaction  of  despair  ;  or  else  the 
firm  resolve  to  record  upon  the  leaves  that  still  re- 
main a  more  noble  history  than  the  child's  story 
with  which  the  book  began." 


278  UYPERION 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    LAST   PANG. 

"  Farewell  to  thee,  Saint  Gilgen  !  "  said  Flera- 
ming,  as  lie  turned  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  to  take 
his  last  look  at  the  lake  and  the  village  below,  and 
felt  that  this  was  one  of  the  few  spots  on  the  wide 
earth  to  which  he  could  say  farewell  with  regret. 
"  Thy  majestic  hills  have  impressed  themselves 
upon  my  soul,  as  a  seal  upon  wax.  The  quiet 
beauty  of  thy  lake  shall  be  to  me  forever  an  image 
of  peace  and  purity  and  stillness,  and  that  inscrip- 
tion in  thy  little  churchyard  a  sentence  of  wisdom 
for  my  after  life," 

Before  the  setting  of  the  same  sun  which  then 
shone  on  that  fair  landscape,  he  was  far  on  his  way 
towards  Munich.  He  had  left  behind  him  the 
mountains  of  the  Tyrol,  and  beheld  them  for  the 
last  time  in  the  soft  evening  twilight,  their  bases 
green  with  forest-trees,  and  here  and  there  a  sharp 
rocky  spire,  and  a  rounded  summit  capped  with 
snow.  There  they  lay,  their  backs  like  the  backs 
of  camels ;  a  mighty  caravan,  reposing  at  evening 
in  its  march  across  the  desert. 

From  Munich  he  passed  through  Augsburg  and 
Ulm,  on  his  way  to  Stuttgard.  At  the  entrances 
of  towns  and  villages,  he  saw  large  crucifixes  ;  and 
on  the  fronts  of  many  houses,  coarse  paintings  and 
images  of  saints.  In  Gunzburg  three  priests  in 
black  were  slowly  passing  down  the  street,  and 
women  fell  on  their  knees  to  receive  a  blessing. 
There  were  many  beggars,  too,  in  the  streets ;  and 


THE  LAST  PANG  279 

an  old  man  who  was  making  hay  in  a  field  by  the 
roadside,  when  he  saw  the  carriage  approaching, 
threw  down  his  rake,  and  came  tumbling  over  the 
ditch,  uttering  the  most  dismal  wail,  with  his  hat 
held  out  in  both  hands.  The  next  day,  the  bright 
yellow  jackets  of  the  postilions,  and  the  two  great 
tassels  of  their  bugle-horns,  dangling  down  their 
backs,  like  cauliflowers,  told  him  he  was  in  Wiir« 
temberg ;  and,  late  in  the  evening,  he  stopped  at 
a  hotel  in  Stuttgard,  and  from  his  chamber-win- 
dow saw,  in  the  bright  moonlight,  the  old  Gothic 
cathedral,  with  its  narrow,  lancet  windows  and  jut- 
ting buttresses,  right  in  front  of  him.  Erelong  he 
had  forgotten  all  his  cares  and  sorrows  in  sleep, 
and  with  them  his  hopes,  and  wishes,  and  good  re- 
solves. 

He  was  still  sitting  at  breakfast  in  his  chamber, 
the  next  morning,  when  the  great  bell  of  the  ca- 
thedral opposite  began  to  ring,  and  reminded  him 
that  it  was  Simday.  Erelong  the  organ  answered 
from  within,  and  from  its  golden  lips  breathed 
forth  a  psalm.  The  congregation  began  to  assem- 
ble, and  Flemming  went  up  with  them  to  the  house 
of  the  Lord.  In  the  body  of  the  church  he  found 
the  pews  all  filled  or  locked  ;  they  seemed  to  be- 
long to  families.  He  went  up  into  the  gallery,  and 
looked  over  the  psalm-book  of  a  peasant,  while  the 
congregation  sang  the  sublime  old  hymn  of  Mar- 
tin Luther,  — 

Our  God,  he  is  a  tower  of  strength, 
A  tnistj  shield  and  weapon. 

During  the  singing,  a  fat  clergyman,  clad  in  black, 
with  a  surplice   thrown  loosely  about  him,  came 


280  HYPERION 

pacing  along  one  of  the  aisles,  from  beneath  the 
organ-loft,  and  ascended  the  pulj)it.  After  the 
hymn,  he  read  a  portion  of  Scripture,  and  then 
said :  — 

"  Let  us  unite  in  silent  prayer." 

And  turning  round,  he  knelt  in  the  pidpit,  while 
the  congregation  remained  standing.  For  a  while 
there  was  a  breathless  silence  in  the  church,  which 
to  Flenmiing  was  more  solemnly  imjjressive  than 
any  audible  prayer.  The  clergyman  then  arose, 
and  began  his  sermon.  His  theme  was  the  Ref- 
ormation, and  he  attempted  to  prove  how  much 
easier  it  was  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven 
through  the  gateways  of  the  Reformed  Evangel- 
ical German  Chui'ch,  than  by  the  aisles  and  peni- 
tential staircases  of  Saint  Peter's.  He  then  gave 
a  history  of  the  Reformation ;  and  when  Flemming 
thought  he  was  near  the  end,  he  heard  liim  say 
that  he  should  divide  his  discourse  into  four  heads. 
This  reminded  him  of  the  sturdy  old  Puritan,  Cot- 
ton Mather,  who,  after  preaching  an  hour,  would 
coolly  turn  the  hour-glass  on  the  pulpit,  and  say : 
"  Now,  my  beloved  hearers,  let  us  take  another 
glass."  He  stole  out  into  the  silent,  deserted  street, 
and  went  to  visit  the  veteran  sculptor  Dannecker. 
He  found  him  sitting  alone,  with  his  psalm-book, 
and  the  reminiscences  of  a  life  of  eighty  years. 
As  Flemming  entered,  he  arose  from  the  sofa,  and  . 
tottered  towards  him  ;  a  venerable  old  man  of  low 
stature,  dressed  in  a  loose  white  jacket,  with  a  face 
like  Franklin's,  a  pale  blue  eye,  and  his  white  hair 
flowing  over  his  shoulders. 

"  So  you  are  from   America,"  said  he.     "  But 


THE  LAST  PANG  281 

you  have  a  German  name.  Paul  Flemming  was 
one  of  our  old  poets.  I  have  never  been  in  Amer- 
ica, and  never  shall  go  there.  I  am  now  too  old. 
I  have  been  in  Paris  and  in  liome.  But  that 
was  long  ago.  I  am  now  eight-and-seventy  years 
old." 

Here  he  took  Flemming  by  the  hand,  and  made 
him  sit  down  by  his  side,  on  the  sofa.  And  Flem- 
ming felt  a  mysterious  awe  creep  over  him,  on 
touching  the  hand  of  the  good  old  man,  who  sat  so 
serenely  amid  the  gathering  shade  of  years,  and 
listened  to  life's  curfew-bell,  telling,  with  eight- 
and-seventy  solemn  strokes,  that  the  hour  had 
come  when  the  fires  of  aU  earthly  passion  must  be 
quenched  within,  and  man  must  prepare  to  lie 
down  and  rest  till  the  morning. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  in  a  melancholy  tone, 
"  my  hands  are  cold ;  colder  than  yours.  They 
were  warmer  once.     I  am  now  an  old  man." 

"  Yet  these  are  the  hands,"  answered  Flemming, 
"  that  sculptured  the  beautiful  Ariadne  and  the 
Panther.     The  soul  never  grows  old." 

"  Nor  does  Nature,"  said  the  old  man,  pleased 
with  this  allusion  to  his  great  work,  and  pointing 
to  the  green  trees  before  his  window.  "  This 
pleasure  I  have  left  to  me.  My  sight  is  still  good. 
I  can  even  distinguish  objects  on  the  side  of  yonder 
mountain.  My  hearing  is  also  unimpaired.  For 
all  which  I  thank  God." 

Then,  directing  Flemming's  attention  to  a  fine 
engraving,  which  hung  on  the  opposite  wall  of  the 
room,  he  continued :  — 

"  That  is  an  engraving  of  Canova's   Religion. 


282  lIYPEPdON 

I  love  to  sit  here  and  look  at  it,  for  hours  together. 
It  is  beautiful.  He  made  the  statue  for  his  native 
town,  where  they  had  no  church  until  he  built 
them  one.  He  placed  the  statue  in  it.  This  en- 
graving he  sent  me  as  a  present.  Ah,  he  was  a 
dear,  good  man.  The  name  of  his  native  town  I 
have  forgotten.  My  memory  fails  me.  I  cannot 
remember  names." 

Fearful  that  he  had  disturbed  the  old  man  in  his 
morning  devotions,  Flemming  did  not  remain  long, 
but  took  his  leave  with  regret.  There  was  some- 
thing impressive  in  the  scene  he  had  witnessed ;  — 
this  beautiful  old  age  of  the  artist ;  sitting  by  the 
open  window,  in  the  bright  summer  morning,  — 
the  labor  of  life  accomplished,  the  horizon  reached, 
where  heaven  and  earth  meet,  —  thinking  it  was 
angel's  music,  when  he  heard  the  church-bells  ring ; 
himself  too  old  to  go.  As  he  wallced  back  to  his 
chamber,  he  thought  within  himself  whether  he 
likewise  might  not  accomplish  something  which 
should  live  after  him,  —  might  not  bring  something 
permanent  out  of  this  fast-fleeting  life,  and  then 
sit  down,  like  the  artist,  in  serene  old  age,  and 
fold  his  hands  in  silence.  He  wondered  how  a 
man  felt  when  he  grew  so  old  that  he  coidd  no 
longer  go  to  church,  but  must  sit  at  home  and  read 
the  Bible  in  large  print.  His  heart  was  full  of  in- 
definite longings,  mingled  with  regrets  ;  longings 
to  accomplish  something  worthy  of  life  ;  regret 
that  as  yet  he  had  accomplished  nothing,  but  had 
felt  and  dreamed  only.  Thus  the  warm  days  in 
spring  bring* forth  passion-flowers  and  forget-me- 
nots.     It  is  only  after  midsummer,  when  the  days 


THE  LAST  PANG  283 

grow  shorter  and  hotter,  that  fruit  begins  to  appear. 
Then  tlie  heat  of  the  day  brings  forward  the  har- 
vest, and  after  the  harvest  the  leaves  fall,  and  there 
is  a  gray  frost.  Much  meditating  upon  these 
things,  Paul  Flemming  reached  his  hotel.  At 
that  moment  a  person  clad  in  green  came  down 
the  church  steps,  and  crossed  the  street.  It  was 
the  German  mechanic  of  Interlachen.  Flemming 
started,  as  if  a  green  snake  had  suddenly  crossed 
his  path.     He  took  refuge  in  his  chamber. 

That  night,  as  he  was  sitting  alone,  having  made 
his  preparations  to  depart  the  following  morning, 
his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  a  female 
voice  in  the  next  room.  A  thin  partition,  with  a 
door,  separated  it  from  his  own.  He  had  not  be- 
fore observed  that  the  room  was  occupied.  But, 
in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  the  tones  of  that  voice 
struck  his  ear.  He  listened.  It  was  a  lady,  read- 
ing the  prayers  of  the  English  Church.  The  tones 
were  familiar,  and  awakened  at  once  a  thousand 
painfully  sweet  recollections.  It  was  the  voice  of 
Mary  Ashburton  I  His  heart  could  not  be  de- 
ceived ;  and  all  its  wounds  began  to  bleed  afresh, 
like  those  of  a  murdered  man  when  the  murderer 
approaches.  His  first  impulse  was  of  affection 
only,  boundless,  irrepressible,  delirious,  as  of  old 
in  the  green  valley  of  Interlachen.  He  waited  for 
the  voice  to  cease,  that  he  might  go  to  her,  and 
behold  her  face  once  more.  And  then  his  pride 
rose  up  within  him,  and  rebuked  this  weakness. 
He  remembered  his  firm  resolve,  and  blushed  to 
find  himself  so  feeble.  And  the  voice  ceased,  and 
yet  he  did  not  go.     Pride  had  so  far  gained  the 


284  HYPERION 

mastery  over  affection.  He  lay  down  upon  his 
bed,  like  a  child  as  he  was.  All  about  him  was 
silence,  and  the  silence  was  holy,  for  she  was  near ; 
so  near,  that  he  could  almost  hear  the  beating  of 
her  heart.  He  knew  now  for  the  first  time  how 
weak  he  was,  and  how  strong  was  his  passion  for 
that  woman.  His  heart  was  like  the  altar  of  the 
Israelites  of  old  ;  and,  though  drenched  with  tears, 
as  with  rain,  it  was  kindled  at  once  by  the  holy 
fire  from  heaven  ! 

Towards  morning  he  fell  asleep,  exhausted  with 
the  strong  excitement ;  and,  in  that  hour,  when, 
sleep  being  "  nigh  unto  the  soul,"  visions  are  deemed 
prophetic,  he  dreamed.  O  blessed  vision  of  the 
morning,  stay  !  thou  wast  so  fair  !  He  stood  again 
on  the  green  sunny  meadow,  beneath  the  ruined 
tower  ;  and  she  was  by  his  side,  with  her  pale, 
speaking  countenance  and  holy  eyes  ;  and  he  kissed 
her  fair  forehead  ;  and  she  turned  her  face  to- 
wards him,  beaming  with  affection,  and  said,  "  I 
confess  it  now ;  you  are  the  Magician ! "  and 
pressed  him  in  a  meek  embrace,  that  he  "  might 
rather  feel  than  see  the  swelling  of  her  heart." 
And  then  she  faded  away  from  his  arms,  and  her 
face  became  transfigured,  and  her  voice  like  the 
voice  of  an  angel  in  heaven  ;  —  and  he  awoke,  and 
was  alone ! 

It  was  broad  daylight,  and  he  heard  the  pos- 
tilion and  the  stamping  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the 
pavement  at  the  door.  He  did  not  dare  to  stay. 
But,  throwing  himself  into  the  carriage,  he  cast 
one  look  towards  the  window  of  the  Dark  Ladie, 
and  a  moment  afterwards  had  left  her  forever  I 


THE  LAST  PANG  285 

He  had  drunk  the  hist  drop  of  the  bitter  cup,  and 
now  laid  the  goklen  goblet  gently  down,  knowing 
that  he  should  behold  it  no  more ! 

No  more  !  Oh,  how  majestically  mournful  are 
those  words !  They  sound  like  the  roar  of  the 
wind  through  a  forest  of  pines  1 


KAVANAGH 


The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook, 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it. 

Shasssfeasb. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

On  the  day  when  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  the 
last  lines  o£  Evangeline  he  noted  in  his  diary: 
"  Now  for  a  little  prose  ;_a  romance  which  I  have 
in  my  brain  —  Kavanagh  by  name."  This  was 
February  27,  1847,  and  the  book  was  published 
May  12, 1849.  At  that  time  he  wrote  of  it:  "Peo- 
ple think  it  is  not  long  enough.  But  why  beat 
out  one's  ideas  into  thin  leaf  ?  "  It  must  not  be 
supposed,  however,  that  he  was  at  work  for  two 
years  on  this  slight  romance.  He  began  it,  indeed, 
immediately  after  finishing  Evangeline,  but  ap- 
pears to  have  worked  at  it  in  a  very  desultory 
fashion  until  the  autumn  of  1848.  He  records  in 
his  diary  under  date  of  October  3,  1848 :  "  Still 
the  imprisoning  rain ;  but  to-day  welcome,  thrice 
welcome.  Sat  by  the  fireside  in  the  library  and 
wrote  in  Kavanagh,  to  my  own  great  satisfaction 
and  delight."  On  the  31st  of  the  same  month,  he 
wrote :  "  Kavanagh  is  nearly  completed.     I  have 


288  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

written  It  coji  amore^  and  have  had  so  much  satis- 
faction as  this,  whatsoever  may  be  its  fate  here- 
after ; "  on  the  9th  of  November  he  finished  the 
book.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  evident  pleasure  which 
he  took  in  his  work,  he  was  not  over-confident  of 
success.  Perhaps  he  was  affected  a  little  by  the 
cautious  appreciation  which  the  manuscript  re- 
ceived from  his  first  audience  of  three,  —  his  wife, 
his  brother,  and  Sumner ;  —  "  The  general  opinion 
favorable,  on  the  whole,  though  it  did  not  awaken 
any  very  lively  enthusiasm."  At  any  rate,  he 
wrote  in  his  diary,  February  13,  1849 :  "  With 
some  doubts  and  misgivings  I  carried  the  first 
sheets  of  Kavaiuujli  to  the  printer.  I  have  never 
hesitated  so  much  about  any  of  my  books,  except 
the  first  hexameters,  Tlie  Children  of  the  Lord's 
Su2)per.  Let  us  sec  how  it  will  look  in  print. 
I  want  to  get  this  out  of  the  way.  Things  lying 
in  manuscript  incumber  and  impede  me ;  hold  me 
back  from  working  on  to  something  better."  His 
hesitation  continued  after  he  had  begun  to  see  the 
book  in  print,  and  on  the  8th  of  March  he  wrote  : 
"  My  mind  is  perplexed  about  Kavanaxjh.  The 
title  is  better  than  the  book,  and  suggests  a  differ- 
ent kind  of  book.  One  more  long,  spiritual  chap- 
ter must  be  written  for  it.  The  thought  struck 
me  last  night.  It  must  go  into  the  book  as  the 
keystone  into  the  arch.  An  idea  so  very  obvi- 
ous, and  yet  coming  so  late !  "  The  next  day, 
he  recorded  :  "  Longed  to  write  the  chapter  for 
Kavanagh,  but  was  obliged  to  go  to  college.  Ah, 
me!  and  yet  what  a  delight  to  begin  every  day 
with  Dante !  " 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  289 

The  chapter  which  was  thus  written  to  give  spir 
itual  significance  and  unity  to  the  book  was  the 
eighteenth,  which  can  be  removed  without  disturb- 
ing the  flow  of  the  narrative,  and  yet  does  per- 
form just  the  function  designed  by  the  author, 
since  it  is,  as  it  were,  a  brief  history  of  the  hero's 
spiritual  experience. 

As  has  been  said  before,  the  figure  of  a  school- 
master was  a  favorite  one  with  Mr.  Longfellow, 
and  he  seems  to  have  employed  it  finally  in 
Kavanagh  as  the  centre  about  which  to  group  his 
thoughts  respecting  literature  and  scholarship,  — ■ 
thoughts  which  before  he  had  given  in  fragmen- 
tary, note-book  form.  He  made  use  also  of  his 
country  rambles  both  in  the  Berkshire  hills  and  in 
Maine  for  pictures  of  life  and  scenery.  The  time 
when  the  romance  was  written  easily  explains  the 
freedom  of  reference  to  domestic  life,  and  the  little 
society  of  the  household.  Without  regarding  the 
interior  of  Mr.  Chui-chill's  home  as  in  any  direct 
sense  a  reproduction  of  the  author's,  it  is  fair  to 
suppose  that  the  scenes  narrated  of  childish  life 
have  the  same  general  relation  to  Mr.  Longfel- 
low's domestic  experience  that  the  scenes  portrayed 
in  Hyperion  bear  to  his  life  before  his  mai'riage. 

Although  Mr.  Longfellow  kept  no  note-book  in 
the  manner  of  Hawthorne's,  recording  suggestions 
for  stories  and  poems,  he  was  in  the  habit,  as  the 
reader  has  seen,  of  setting  down  occasionally  in 
his  diary  a  half-formed  plan,  and  he  also  kept  for 
use  such  newspaper  clippings  as  bore  upon  his 
work.  He  valued  the  real  touch  which  he  con- 
ceived that  he  thus  secured,  and  sometimes  incor- 


290  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

^orated  tins  matter  in  his  mannscript.  Thus  the 
announcement  of  Edward  Dimple  in  the  nine- 
teenth chapter  was  a  veritable  advertisement,  cut 
from  some  newspaper  and  attached  in  its  place  to 
the  manuscript  given  to  the  printer. 

Th6  name  of  Kavanagh  is  that  of  an  old  Roman 
Catholic  family  of  Maine,  now  extinct,  and  is 
perpetuated  both  by  this  book  and  by  a  school 
in  Portland  called  the  Kavanagh  School.  The 
Arthur  Kavanagh  of  the  story  is,  however,  an 
entirely  imaginary  personage. 


KAVANAGH 


BOOK  THE   FIRST. 

Who  ne'er  his  bread  in  sorrow  ate, 

Who  ne'er  the  mournful  midniglit  hours 

Weeping  upon  his  bed  has  sate, 
He  knows  you  not,  ye  Heavenly  Powers. 

GOSTHX 

I. 

Great  men  stand  like  solitary  towers  in  the 
city  of  God,  and  secret  passages  running  deep  be- 
neath external  nature  give  their  thoughts  inter- 
course with  higher  intelligences,  which  strengthens 
and  consoles  them,  and  of  which  the  laborers  on 
the  surface  do  not  even  dream ! 

Some  such  thought  as  this  was  floating  vaguely 
through  the  brain  of  Mr.  Churchill,  as  he  closed 
his  school-house  door  behind  him  ;  and  if  in  any 
degree  he  applied  it  to  himself,  it  may  perhaps  be 
pardoned  in  a  dreamy,  poetic  man  like  him ;  for 
we  judge  ourselves  by  what  we  feel  capable  of 
doing,  while  others  judge  us  by  what  we  have  al- 
ready done.  And  moreover  his  wife  considered 
him  equal  to  great  things.  To  the  people  in  the 
village  he  was  the  schoolmaster,  and  nothing  more. 
They  beheld  in  his  form  and  countenance  no  out- 
ward sign  of  the  divinity  within.     They  saw  him 


292  KAVANAGH 

daily  moiling  and  delving  in  the  common  path, 
like  a  beetle,  and  little  thought  that  underneath 
that  hard  and  cold  exterior  lay  folded  delicate 
golden  wings,  wherewith,  when  the  heat  of  day 
was  over,  he  soared  and  revelled  in  the  pleasant 
evening  air. 

To-day  he  was  soaring  and  revelling  before  the 
sun  had  set ;  for  it  was  Saturday.  With  a  feeling 
of  infinite  relief  he  left  behind  him  the  empty 
school-house,  into  which  the  hot  sun  of  a  Septem- 
ber afternoon  was  pouring.  All  the  bright  young 
faces  were  gone ;  all  the  impatient  little  hearts 
were  gone  ;  all  the  fresh  voices,  shrill,  but  musical 
with  the  melody  of  childhood  were  gone ;  and  the 
lately  busy  realm  was  given  up  to  silence,  and  the 
dusty  sunshine,  and  the  old  gray  flies,  that  buzzed 
and  bumped  their  heads  against  the  window-panes. 
The  sound  of  the  outer  door,  creaking  on  its  heb- 
domadal hinges,  was  like  a  sentinel's  challenge,  to 
which  the  key  growled  responsive  in  the  lock ;  and 
the  master,  casting  a  furtive  glance  at  the  last  cari- 
cature of  himself  in  red  chalk  on  the  wooden  fence 
close  by,  entered  with  a  light  step  the  solemn 
avenue  of  pines  that  led  to  the  margin  of  the 
river. 

At  first  his  step  was  quick  and  nervous  ;  and  he 
swung  his  cane  as  if  aiming  blows  at  some  iuNasi- 
ble  and  retreating  enemy.  Though  a  meek  man, 
there  were  moments  when  he  remembered  with  bit- 
terness the  unjust  reproaches  of  fathers  and  their 
insulting  words ;  and  then  he  fought  imaginary 
battles  with  people  out  of  sight,  and  struck  them 
to  the  ground,  and  trampled  upon  them ;  for  Mc 


A    TALE  293 

Churchill  was  not  exempt  from  the  weakness  of 
human  nature,  nor  the  customary  vexations  of  a 
schoolmaster's  life.  Unruly  sons  and  unreasonable 
fathers  did  sometimes  embitter  his  else  sweet  days 
and  nights.  But  as  he  walked,  his  step  grew 
slower,  and  his  heart  calmer.  The  coolness  and 
shadows  of  the  great  trees  comforted  and  satisfied 
him,  and  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  wind  as  it  were 
the  voice  of  spirits  calling  around  him  in  the  air. 
So  that  when  he  emerged  from  the  black  woodlands 
into  the  meadows  by  the  river's  side,  all  his  cares 
were  forgotten. 

He  lay  down  for  a  moment  under  a  sycamore, 
and  thought  of  the  Roman  Consul  Licinius,  pass- 
ing a  night  with  eighteen  of  his  followers  in  the 
hollow  trunk  of  the  great  Lycian  plane-tree. 
From  the  branches  overhead  the  falling  seeds  were 
wafted  away  through  the  soft  air  on  plumy  tufts 
of  down.  The  continuous  murmur  of  the  leaves 
and  of  the  swift  -  running  stream  seemed  rather 
to  deepen  than  disturb  the  pleasing  solitude  and 
silence  of  the  place ;  and  for  a  moment  he  imag- 
ined himself  far  away  in  the  broad  prairies  of  the 
West,  and  lying  beneath  the  luxuriant  trees  that 
overhang  the  banks  of  the  Wabash  and  the  Kas- 
kaskia.  He  saw  the  sturgeon  leap  from  the  river, 
and  flash  for  a  moment  in  the  sunshine.  Then  a 
flock  of  wild-fowl  flew  across  the  sky  towards  the 
sea-mist  that  was  rising  slowly  in  the  east ;  and  his 
sold  seemed  to  float  away  on  the  river's  current, 
till  he  had  glided  far  out  into  the  measureless  sea, 
and  the  sound  of  the  wind  among  the  leaves  was 
no  longer  the  sound  of  the  wind,  but  of  the  sea. 


294  KAVANAGH 

Nature  had  made  Mr.  Churchill  a  poet,  but 
/destiny  made  him  a  schoolmaster.  This  produced 
'  a  discord  between  his  outward  and  his  inward  ex- 
istence. Life  presented  itself  to  him  like  the 
Sphinx,  with  its  perpetual  riddle  of  the  real  and 
the  ideal.  To  the  solution  of  this  dark  problem  he 
devoted  his  days  and  his  nights.  He  was  forced  to 
teach  grammar  when  he  would  fain  have  written 
poems  ;  and  from  day  to  day,  and  from  year  to 
year,  the  trivial  things  of  life  postponed  the  great 
designs,  which  he  felt  capable  of  accomplishing, 
but  never  had  the  resolute  courage  to  begin.  Thus 
he  dallied  with  his  thoughts  and  with  all  things, 
and  wasted  his  strength  on  trifles  ;  like  the  lazy 
sea,  that  plays  with  the  pebbles  on  its  beach,  but 
under  the  inspiration  of  the  Aviiid  might  lift  great 
navies  on  its  outstretched  palms,  and  toss  them  into 
the  air  as  playthings. 

The  evening  came.  The  setting  sun  stretched 
his  celestial  rods  of  light  across  the  level  land- 
scape, and,  like  the  Hebrew  in  Egypt,  smote  the 
rivers  and  the  brooks  and  the  ponds,  and  they  be- 
came as  blood. 

Mr.  Churchill  turned  his  steps  homeward.  He 
climbed  the  hill  with  the  old  windmill  on  its  summit, 
and  below  him  saw  the  lights  of  the  village ;  and 
around  him  the  great  landscape  sinking  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  sea  of  darkness.  He  passed 
an  orchard.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  odor  of 
the  fallen  fruit,  which  seemed  to  him  as  sweet  as 
the  fragrance  of  the  blossoms  in  June.  A  few 
steps  farther  brought  him  to  an  old  and  neglected 
graveyard ;  and  he  paused  a  moment  to  look  at 


A    TALE  295 

the  white  gleaming  stone,  under  which  slumbered 
the  old  clergyman,  who  came  into  the  village  in 
the  time  of  the  Indian  wars,  and  on  which  was  re- 
corded that  for  half  a  century  he  had  been  "  a 
painful  preacher  of  the  word."  He  entered  the 
village  street,  and  interchanged  a  few  words  with 
Mr.  Pendexter,  the  venerable  divine,  whom  he 
found  standing  at  his  gate.  He  met,  also,  an  ill- 
looking  man,  carrying  so  many  old  boots  that  he 
seemed  literally  buried  in  them  ;  and  at  intervals 
encountered  a  stream  of  strong  tobacco  smoke, 
exhaled  fx'om  the  pipe  of  an  Irish  laborer,  and 
pervading  the  damp  evening  air.  At  length  he 
reached  his  own  door. 


II. 

When  Mr.  Churchill  entered  his  study,  he 
found  the  lamp  lighted,  and  his  wife  waiting  for 
him.  The  wood  fire  was  singing  on  the  hearth 
like  a  grasshopper  in  the  heat  and  silence  of  a 
summer  noon ;  and  to  his  heart  the  chill  autumnal 
evening  became  a  summer  noon.  His  wife  turned 
towards  him  with  looks  of  love  in  her  joyous  blue 
eyes  ;  and  in  the  serene  expression  of  her  face  he 
read  the  Divine  beatitude,  "  Blessed  are  the  pure 
in  heart." 

No  sooner  had  he  seated  himself  by  the  fireside 
than  the  door  was  swung  wide  open,  and  on  the 
threshold  stood,  with  his  legs  apart,  like  a  minia- 
ture colossus,  a  lovely,  golden  boy,  about  three 
years  old,  with  long,  light  locks,  and  very  red 
cheeks.     After  a  moment's  pause,  he  dashed  for- 


296  KAVANAGH 

ward  into  the  room  with  a  shout,  and  establishefl 
himself  in  a  large  arm-chair,  which  he  converted 
into  a  carrier's  wagon,  and  over  the  back  of 
which  he  urged  forward  his  imaginary  horses.  He 
was  followed  by  Lucy,  the  maid  of  all  work,  bear- 
ing in  her  arms  the  baby,  with  large,  round  eyes, 
and  no  hair.  In  his  mouth  he  held  an  India-rub- 
ber ring,  and  looked  very  much  like  a  street-door 
knocker.  He  came  down  to  say  good  night,  but 
after  he  got  down,  could  not  say  it ;  not  being 
able  to  say  anything  but  a  kind  of  explosive 
"  Papa !  "  He  was  then  a  good  deal  kissed  and 
tormented  in  various  ways,  and  finally  sent  off  to 
bed  blowing  little  bubbles  with  his  mouth,  —  Lucy 
blessing  his  little  heart,  and  asseverating  that  no- 
body could  feed  him  in  the  night  without  loving 
him  ;  and  that  if  the  flies  bit  him  any  more  she 
would  pull  out  every  tooth  in  their  heads  ! 

Then  came  Master  Alfred's  hour  of  trivunph  and 
sovereign  sway.  The  fire-light  gleamed  on  his 
hard,  red  cheeks,  and  glanced  from  his  liquid  eyes, 
and  small,  white  teeth.  He  piled  his  wagon  full 
of  books  and  papers,  and  dashed  off  to  town  at  the 
top  of  his  speed  ;  he  delivered  and  received  par- 
cels and  letters,  and  played  the  post-boy's  horn 
with  his  lips.  Then  he  climbed  the  back  of  the 
great  chair,  sang  "  Sweep  ho  !  "  as  from  the  top  of 
a  very  high  chimney,  and,  sliding  down  upon  the , 
cushion,  pretended  to  fall  asleep  in  a  little  white 
bed,  with  white  curtains ;  from  which  imaginary 
slumber  his  father  awoke  him  by  crying  in  his  ear, 
in  mysterious  tones,  — 

"  What  little  boy  is  this !  " 


A    TALE  297 

Finally  he  sat  clown  in  his  chair  at  his  mother's 
knee,  and  listened  very  attentively,  and  for  the 
hundredth  time,  to  the  story  of  the  dog  Jumper, 
which  was  no  sooner  ended,  than  vociferously 
called  for  again  and  again.  On  the  fifth  repeti- 
tion, it  was  cut  as  short  as  the  dog's  tail  by  Lucy, 
who,  ha\nng  put  the  baby  to  bed,  now  came  for 
Master  AKred.  He  seemed  to  hope  he  had  been 
forgotten,  but  was  nevertheless  marched  off  with- 
out any  particidar  regard  to  his  feelings,  and  dis- 
appeared in  a  kind  of  abstracted  mood,  repeating 
softly  to  himself  his  father's  words,  — 

"  Good  night,  Alfred  !  " 

His  father  looked  fondly  after  him  as  he  went 
up  stairs,  holding  Lucy  by  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  rubbing  the  sleep  out  of  his  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  these  children,  these  children !  "  said  Mr. 
Churchill,  as  he  sat  down  at  the  tear-table ;  "  we 
ought  to  love  them  very  much  now,  for  we  shall  not 
have  them  long  with  us  !  " 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  his  wife,  "  what  do 
you  mean  ?  Does  anything  ail  them  ?  Are  they 
going  to  die  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not.  But  they  are  going  to  grow  up, 
and  be  no  longer  children." 

"  Oh,  you  foolish  man !  You  gave  me  such  a 
fright !  " 

"  And  yet  it  seems  impossible  that  they  should 
ever  grow  to  be  men,  and  drag  the  heavy  artillery 
along  the  dusty  roads  of  life." 

"  And  I  hope  they  never  wiU.  That  is  the  last 
thing  I  want  either  of  them  to  do." 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  mean  literally,  only  figuratively. 


298  KAVANAGH 

By  the  way,  speaking  of  growing  up  and  growing 
old,  I  saw  Mr.  Pendexter  this  evening,  as  I  came 
home." 

"  And  what  had  he  to  say  ?  " 

"  He  tokl  me  he  should  preach  his  farewell  ser- 
mon to-morrow." 

"  Poor  old  man  !     I  really  pity  him." 

"  So  do  I.  But  it  must  be  confessed  he  is  a  didl 
preacher ;  and  I  dare  say  it  is  as  dull  work  for  him 
as  for  his  hearers." 

"  Why  are  they  going  to  send  him  away  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  are  a  great  many  reasons.  He  does 
not  give  time  and  attention  enough  to  his  sermons 
and  to  his  parish.  He  is  always  at  work  on  his 
farm  ;  always  wants  his  salary  raised ;  and  insists 
upon  his  right  to  pasture  his  horse  in  the  parish 
fields." 

"  Hark !  "  cried  his  wife,  lifting  up  her  face  in  a 
listening  attitude. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"  I  thought  I  heard  the  baby  !  " 

There  was  a  short  sUence.  Then  Mr.  Churchill 
said,  — 

"  It  was  only  the  cat  in  the  cellar." 

At  this  moment  Lucy  came  in.  She  hesitated  a 
little,  and  then,  in  a  submissive  voice,  asked  leave 
to  go  down  to  the  village  to  buy  some  ribbon  for 
her  bonnet.  Lucy  was  a  girl  of  fifteen,  who  had 
been  taken  a  few  years  before  from  an  Orphan 
Asylum.  Her  dark  eyes  had  a  gypsy  look,  and 
she  wore  her  brown  hair  twisted  round  her  head 
after  the  manner  of  some  of  Murillo's  girls.  She 
had  Milesian  blood  in  her  veins,  and  was  impetuous 
and  impatient  of  contradiction. 


A    TALE  299 

When  she  had  left  the  room,  the  schoohnaster 
resumed  the  conversation  by  saying,  — 

"  I  do  not  like  Lucy's  going  out  so  much  in  the 
evenmg.  I  am  afraid  she  will  get  into  trouble. 
She  is  really  very  pretty." 

Then  there  was  another  pause,  after  which  he 
added,  — 

"  My  dear  wife,  one  thing  puzzles  me  exceed- 
ingly." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  to  know  what  that  man  does  with  all  the 
old  boots  he  picks  up  about  the  village.  I  met  him 
again  this  evening.  He  seemed  to  have  as  many 
feet  as  Briareus  had  hands.  He  is  a  kind  of  cen- 
tipede." 

"  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Lucy  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  It  only  occurred  to  me  at  the  mo- 
ment ;  and  I  never  can  imagine  what  he  does  with 
so  many  old  boots." 

III. 

When  tea  was  over,  Mr.  Churchill  walked  to 
and  fro  in  his  study,  as  his  custom  was.  And  as 
he  walked,  he  gazed  with  secret  rapture  at  the 
books,  which  lined  the  walls,  and  thought  how 
many  bleeding  hearts  and  aching  heads  had  found 
consolation  for  themselves  and  imparted  it  to 
others,  by  writing  those  pages.  The  books  seemed 
to  him  almost  as  living  beings,  so  instinct  were 
they  with  human  thoughts  and  sympathies.  It  was 
as  if  the  authors  themselves  were  gazing  at  him 
from  the  walls,  with  countenances  neither  sorrow- 


300  KAVANAGH 

ful  nor  glad,  but  full  of  calm  indifference  to  fate, 
like  those  of  the  poets  who  appeared  to  Dante  in 
his  vision,  walking  together  on  the  dolorous  shore. 
And  then  he  dreamed  of  fame,  and  thought  that 
perhaps  hereafter  he  might  be  in  some  degree,  and 
to  some  one,  what  these  men  were  to  him  ;  and  in 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment  he  exclaimed  aloud, 

"  Would  you  have  me  be  like  these,  dear 
Mary?" 

"  Like  these  what  ?  "  asked  his  wife,  not  com- 
prehending him. 

"  Like  these  great  and  good  men,  —  like  these 
scholars  and  poets,  —  the  authors  of  all  these 
books !  " 

She  pressed  his  hand  and  said,  in  a  soft,  but 
excited  tone,  — 

"  Oh,  yes  !     Like  them,  only  perhaps  better !  " 

"  Then  I  will  write  a  Eomance  !  " 

"  Write  it !  "  said  his  wife,  like  the  angel.  For 
she  believed  that  then  he  would  become  famous 
forever ;  and  that  all  the  vexed  and  busy  world 
would  stand  still  to  hear  him  blow  his  little  trum- 
pet, whose  sound  was  to  rend  the  adamantine  walls 
of  time,  and  reach  the  ears  of  a  far-off  and  startled 
posterity. 

IV. 

"  I  was  thinking  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Churchill  a 
few  minutes  afterwards,  as  he  took  some  papers 
from  a  drawer  scented  with  a  quince,  and  arranged 
them  on  the  study  table,  while  his  wife  as  usual 
seated  herself  opposite  to  him  with  her  work  in 
her  hand,  —  "I  was  thinking  to-day  how  dull  and 


A    TALE  301 

prosaic  the  study  of  mathematics  is  made  in  our 
school-books  ;  as  if  the  grand  science  of  numbers 
had  been  discovered  and  perfected  merely  to  fur- 
ther the  purposes  of  trade." 

"  For  my  part,"  answered  his  wife,  "  I  do  not  see 
how  you  can  make  mathematics  poetical.  There  is 
no  poetry  in  them." 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  very  great  mistake  !  There  is 
something  divine  in  the  science  of  nvimbers.  Like 
God,  it  holds  the  sea  in  the  hollow  of  its  hand.  It 
measures  the  earth ;  it  weighs  the  stars ;  it  illu- 
mines the  universe  ;  it  is  law,  it  is  order,  it  is 
beauty.  And  yet  we  imagine  —  that  is,  most  of 
us  —  that  its  highest  end  and  culminating  point  is 
book-keeping  by  double  entry.  It  is  our  way  of 
teaching  it  that  makes  it  so  prosaic." 

So  saying,  he  arose,  and  went  to  one  of  his 
book-cases,  from  the  shelf  of  which  he  took  down 
a  little  old  quarto  volume,  and  laid  it  upon  the 
table. 

"  Now  here,"  he  continued,  "  is  a  book  of  math- 
ematics of  quite  a  different  stamp  from  ours." 

"  It  looks  very  old.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  Lilawati  of  Bhascara  Acharya,  trans- 
lated from  the  Sanscrit." 

"  It  is  a  pretty  name.  Pray  what  does  it 
mean  ?  " 

"  Lilawati  was  the  name  of  Bhascara's  daugh- 
ter ;  and  the  book  was  written  to  perpetuate  it. 
Here  is  an  account  of  the  whole  matter." 

He  then  opened  the  volume,  and  read  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  It  is  said  that  the  composing  of  Lilawati  was 


302  KAVANAGH 

occasioned  by  the  following  circumstance.  Lila- 
wati  was  the  name  of  the  author's  daughter,  con- 
cerning whom  it  a})poared,  from  the  qualities  of  the 
Ascendant  at  her  birth,  that  she  was  destined  to 
pass  her  life  unmarried,  and  to  remain  without 
children.  The  father  ascertained  a  lucky  hour  for 
contracting  her  in  marriage,  that  she  might  be 
firmly  connected,  and  have  children.  It  is  said 
that,  when  that  hour  approached,  he  brought  his 
daughter  and  his  intended  son  near  him.  He  left 
the  hour-cup  on  the  vessel  of  water,  and  kept  in 
attendance  a  time-knowing  astrologer,  in  order 
that,  when  the  cup  should  subside  in  the  water, 
those  two  precious  jewels  shovdd  be  united.  But 
as  the  intended  arrangement  was  not  according  to 
destiny,  it  happened  that  the  girl,  from  a  curiosity 
natural  to  children,  looked  into  the  cup  to  observe 
the  water  coming  in  at  the  hole  ;  when  by  chance 
a  pearl  separated  from  her  bridal  dress,  fell  into 
the  cup,  and,  rolling  down  to  the  hole,  stopped  the 
influx  of  the  water.  So  the  astrologer  waited  in 
expectation  of  the  promised  hour.  When  the  op- 
eration of  the  cup  had  thus  been  delayed  beyond 
all  moderate  time,  the  father  was  in  consterna- 
tion, and  examining,  he  found  that  a  small  pearl 
had  stopped  the  course  of  the  water,  and  the  long- 
expected  hour  was  passed.  In  short,  the  father, 
thus  disappointed,  said  to  his  unfortunate  daugh- 
ter, I  will  write  a  book  of  your  name,  which  shall 
remain  to  the  latest  times,  —  for  a  good  name 
is  a  second  life,  and  the  groundwork  of  eternal 
existence." 

As  the  schoolmaster  read,  the  eyes  of  his  wife 
dilated  and  grew  tender,  and  she  said,  — 


A    TALE  303 

"  What  a  beautiful  story  I  When  did  it  hap- 
pen?" 

"  Seven  hundred  years  ago,  among  the  Hin- 
doos." 

"  Why  not  write  a  poem  about  it  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  ah-eady  a  poem  of  itself,  —  one 
of  those  things  of  which  the  simplest  statement 
is  the  best,  and  which  lose  by  embellishment.  The 
old  Hindoo  legend,  brown  with  age,  would  not 
please  me  so  well  if  decked  in  gay  colors,  and  hung 
round  with  the  tinkling  bells  of  rhyme.  Now  hear 
how  the  book  begins." 

Again  he  read :  — 

"  Salutation  to  the  elephant-headed  Being  who 
infuses  joy  into  the  minds  of  his  worshippers,  who 
delivers  from  every  difficulty  those  that  call  upon 
him,  and  whose  feet  are  reverenced  by  the  gods  ! 
—  Reverence  to  Ganesa,  who  is  beautiful  as  the 
pure  purple  lotos,  and  around  whose  neck  the  black 
curling  snake  winds  itself  in  playful  folds  !  " 

"  That  sounds  rather  mystical,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  the  book  begins  with  a  salutation  to  the 
Hindoo  deities,  as  the  old  Spanish  Chronicles  be- 
gin in  the  name  of  God  and  the  Holy  Virgin. 
And  now  see  how  poetical  some  of  the  examples 
are." 

He  then  turned  over  the  leaves  slowly  and 
read,  — 

"  One  third  of  a  collection  of  beautiful  water- 
lilies  is  offered  to  Mahadev,  one  fifth  to  Huri, 
one  sixth  to  the  Sun,  one  fourth  to  Devi,  and 
six  which  remain  are  presented  to  the  spiritual 
teacher.  Required  the  whole  number  of  water- 
lilies." 


304  KAVANAGH 

"  That  is  very  pretty,"  said  the  wife,  "  and 
would  put  it  into  the  boys'  heads  to  bring  you 
pond-lilies." 

"  Here  is  a  prettier  one  still.  One  fifth  of  a 
hive  of  bees  flew  to  the  Kadamba  flower  ;  one  third 
flew  to  the  Silandhara ;  three  times  the  difference 
of  these  two  numbers  flew  to  an  arbor  ;  and  one 
bee  continued  flying  about,  attracted  on  each  side 
by  the  fragrant  Ketaki  and  the  Malati.  What 
was  the  number  of  the  bees  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  should  never  be  able  to  tell." 

"  Ten  times  the  square  root  of  a  flock  of 
geese  "  — 

Here  Mrs.  Churchill  laughed  aloud  ;  but  he  con- 
tinued very  gravely,  — 

"  Ten  times  the  square  root  of  a  flock  of 
geese,  seeing  the  clouds  collect,  flew  to  the  Man  us 
lake ;  one  eighth  of  the  whole  flew  from  the  edge 
of  the  water  amongst  a  multitude  of  water-lilies ; 
and  three  couple  were  observed  plajdng  in  the  water. 
Tell  me  my  young  girl  with  beautiful  locks,  what 
was  the  whole  number  of  geese  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  was  it  ?  " 

"  What  should  you  think  ?  " 

"  About  twenty." 

"  No,  one  hundred  and  forty-four.  Now  try  an- 
other. The  square  root  of  half  a  number  of  bees, 
and  also  eight  ninths  of  the  whole,  alighted  on  the 
jasmines,  and  a  female  bee  buzzed  responsive  to 
the  hum  of  the  male  enclosed  at  night  in  a  water- 
lily.  Oh,  beautiful  damsel,  tell  me  the  number  of 
bees." 

"  That  is  not  there.     You  made  it." 


A    TALE  305 

"  No,  indeed  I  did  not.  I  wish  I  had  made  it. 
Look  and  see." 

Pie  showed  her  the  book,  and  she  read  it  her- 
self. He  then  proposed  some  of  the  geometrical 
questions. 

"  In  a  hike  the  bud  of  a  water-lily  was  observed, 
one  span  above  the  water,  and  when  moved  by  the 
gentle  breeze,  it  sank  in  the  water  at  two  cubits' 
distance.     Required  the  depth  of  the  water." 

"  That  is  charming,  but  must  be  very  difficult. 
I  could  not  answer  it." 

"  A  tree  one  hundred  cubits  high  is  distant  from 
a  well  two  hundred  cubits  ;  from  this  tree  one 
monkey  descends  and  goes  to  the  well  ;  another 
monkey  takes  a  leap  upwards,  and  then  descends 
by  the  hypothenuse  ;  and  both  pass  over  an  equal 
space.     Required  the  height  of  the  leap." 

"  1  do  not  believe  you  can  answer  that  question 
yourself,  without  looking  into  the  book,"  said  the 
laughing  wife,  laying  her  hand  over  the  solution. 
"  Try  it." 

"  With  great  pleasure,  my  dear  child,"  cried  the 
confident  schoolmaster,  taking  a  pencil  and  paper. 
After  making  a  few  figvu-es  and  calculations,  he 
answered,  — 

"  There,  my  young  girl  with  beautiful  locks, 
there  is  the  answer,  —  forty  cubits." 

His  wife  removed  her  hand  from  the  book, 
and  then,  clapping  both  in  triumph,  she  ex- 
claimed, — 

"  No,  you  are  wrong,  you  are  wrong,  my  beau- 
tiful youth  with  a  bee  in  your  bonnet.  It  is  fifty 
cubits  !  " 


306  KAVANAGH 

"  Then  I  must  have  made  some  mistake." 

"  Of  course  you  did.  Your  monkey  did  not 
jump  high  enough," 

She  signalized  his  mortifying  defeat  as  if  it  had 
been  a  victory,  by  showering  kisses,  like  roses, 
upon  his  forehead  and  cheeks,  as  he  passed  beneath 
the  triumphal  archway  of  her  arms,  trying  in  vaira 
to  articulate,  — 

"  My  dearest  Lilawati,  what  is  the  whole  num- 
ber of  the  geese  ?  " 

V. 

After  extricating  himself  from  this  pleasing 
dilemma,  he  said,  — 

"  But  I  am  now  going  to  write.  I  must  really 
begin  in  sober  earnest,  or  I  shall  never  get  any- 
thing finished.  And  you  know  I  have  so  many 
things  to  do,  so  many  books  to  write,  that  really  I 
do  not  know  where  to  begin.  I  think  I  will  take 
up  the  Romance  first." 

"  It  will  not  make  much  difference,  if  you  only 
begin  !  " 

"  That  is  true.     I  will  not  lose  a  moment." 

"  Did  you  answer  Mr,  Wainwright's  letter  about 
the  cottage  bedstead  ?  " 

"  Dear  me,  no !  I  forgot  it  entirely.  That  must 
be  done  first,  or  he  will  make  it  all  wrong." 

"And  the  young  lady  who  sent  you  the  poetry 
to  look  over  and  criticise  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  have  not  had  a  single  moment's  leisure. 
And  there  is  Mr.  Hanson,  who  wants  to  know 
about   the  cooking-range.     Confound  it!  there  is 


A    TALE  307 

always  something  interfering  with  my  Romance. 
However,  I  will  despatch  those  matters  very 
speedily." 

And  he  began  to  write  with  gi-eat  haste.  For  a 
while  nothing  was  heard  but  the  scratching  of  his 
pen.  Then  he  said,  probably  in  connection  with 
the  cooking-range,  — 

"  One  of  the  most  convenient  things  in  house- 
keeping is  a  ham.  It  is  always  ready  and  always 
welcome.  You  can  eat  it  with  anything,  and  with- 
out anything.  It  reminds  me  always  of  the  great 
wild  boar  Scrimner,  in  the  Northern  Mythology, 
who  is  killed  every  day  for  the  gods  to  feast  on 
in  Valhalla,  and  comes  to  life  again  every  night." 

"  In  that  case,  I  should  think  the  gods  would 
have  the  nightmare,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Perhaps  they  do." 

And  then  another  long  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  skating  of  the  swift  pen  over  the  sheet.  Pres- 
ently Mrs.  Churchill  said,  —  as  if  following  out 
her  own  train  of  thought,  while  she  ceased  plying 
her  needle  to  bite  off  the  thread,  which  women 
will  sometimes  do  in  spite  of  all  that  is  said  against 

it,  — 

"  A  man  came  here  to-day,  calling  himself  the 
agent  of  an  extensive  house  in  the  needle  trade. 
He  left  this  sample,  and  said  the  driU  of  the  eye 
was  superior  to  any  other,  and  they  are  warranted 
not  to  cut  the  thread.  He  puts  them  at  the  whole- 
sale price  ;  and  if  I  do  not  like  the  sizes,  he  offers 
to  exchange  them  for  others,  either  sharps  or 
betweens." 

To    this    remark    the   abstracted   schoolmaster 


308  KAVANAGH 

vouchsafed  no  reply.  He  found  his  half-dozen 
letters  not  so  easily  answered,  particularly  that  to 
the  poetical  young  lady,  and  worked  away  busily 
at  them.  Finally  they  were  finished  and  sealed, 
and  he  looked  up  to  his  wife.  She  turned  her  eyes 
dreamily  upon  him.  Slumber  was  hanging  in  their 
blue  orbs,  like  snow  in  the  heavens,  ready  to  fall. 
It  was  quite  late,  and  he  said  to  her,  — 

"  I  am  too  tired,  my  charming  Lilawati,  and  you 
too  sleepy,  to  sit  here  any  longer  to-night.  And, 
as  I  do  not  wish  to  begin  my  Romance  without 
having  you  at  my  side,  so  that  I  can  read  detached 
passages  to  you  as  I  write,  I  wall  put  it  off  till  to- 
morrow or  the  next  day." 

He  watched  his  wife  as  she  went  up  stairs  with 
the  light.  It  was  a  picture  always  new  and  always 
beautiful,  and  like  a  painting  of  Gherardo  della 
Notte.  As  he  followed  her,  he  paused  to  look  at 
the  stars.  The  beauty  of  the  heavens  made  his 
soul  overflow. 

"  How  absolute,"  he  exclaimed,  "  how  absolute 
and  omnipotent  is  the  silence  of  the  night  !  And 
yet  the  stillness  seems  almost  audible  !  From  all 
the  measureless  depths  of  air  around  us  comes  a 
half-sound,  a  half- whisper,  as  if  we  could  hear  the 
crumbling  and  falling  away  of  earth  and  all  created 
things,  in  the  great  miracle  of  nature,  decay  and 
reproduction,  ever  beginning,  never  ending,  —  the 
gradual  lapse  and  running  of  the  sand  in  the  great 
hour-glass  of  Time  !  " 

In  the  night,  IVIr.  ChurchiU  had  a  singular 
dream.  He  thought  himself  in  school,  where  he 
was  reading  Latin  to  his  pupils.     Suddenly  all  the 


A    TALE  309 

genitive  cases  of  the  first  declension  began  to  make 
faces  at  him,  and  to  laugli  immoderately ;  and 
when  he  tried  to  lay  hold  of  them,  they  jumped 
down  into  the  ablative,  and  the  circumflex  accent 
assumed  the  form  of  a  great  moustache.  Then 
the  little  village  school-house  was  transformed  into 
a  vast  and  endless  school-house  of  the  world, 
stretching  forward,  form  after  form,  through  all 
the  generations  of  coming  time  ;  and  on  all  the 
forms  sat  young  men  and  old,  reading  and  tran- 
scribing his  Romance,  which  now  in  his  dream  was 
completed,  and  smiling  and  passing  it  onward 
from  one  to  another,  till  at  last  the  clock  in  the 
corner  struck  twelve,  and  the  weights  ran  down 
with  a  strange,  angry  whirr,  and  the  school  broke 
up  ;  and  the  schoolmaster  awoke  to  find  this  vision 
of  fame  only  a  dream,  out  of  which  his  alarm  clock 
had  aroused  him  at  an  untimely  hour. 

VI. 

Meanwhile,  a  different  scene  was  taking  place  at 
the  parsonage.  Mr.  Pendexter  had  retired  to  his 
study  to  finish  his  farewell  sermon.  Silence 
reigned  through  the  house.  Sunday  had  already 
commenced  there.  .  The  week  ended  with  the  set- 
ting of  the  sun,  and  the  evening  and  the  morning 
were  the  first  day. 

The  clergyman  was  interrupted  in  his  labors  by 
the  old  sexton,  who  called  as  usual  for  the  key  of 
the  church.  He  was  gently  rebuked  for  coming  so 
late,  and  excused  himself  by  saying  that  his  wife 
was  worse. 


310  KAVANAGII 

"  Poor  woman !  "  said  Mr.  Pendexter ;  "  has  she 
her  mind  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  sexton,  "  as  much  as  ever." 

"  She  has  been  ill  a  long  time,"  continued  the 
clergj'man.  "  We  have  had  prayers  for  her  a  great 
many  Sundays." 

"  It  is  very  true,  sir,"  replied  the  sexton,  mourn° 
fully ;  "  I  have  given  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 
But  you  need  not  pray  for  her  any  more.  It  is  of 
no  use." 

Mr.  Pendexter's  mind  was  in  too  fervid  a  state 
to  notice  the  extreme  and  hopeless  humility  of  his 
old  parishioner,  and  the  unintentional  allusion  to 
the  inefficacy  of  his  prayers.  He  pressed  the 
old  man's  hand  warmly,  and  said,  with  much 
emotion,  — 

"  To-morrow  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall  preach 
in  this  parish,  where  I  have  preached  for  twenty- 
five  years.  But  it  is  not  the  last  time  I  shall  pray 
for  you  and  your  family." 

The  sexton  retired  also  much  moved ;  and  the 
clergyman  again  resumed  his  task.  His  heart 
glowed  and  burned  within  him.  Often  his  face 
flushed  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  so  that  he 
could  not  go  on.  Often  he  rose  and  paced  the 
chamber  to  and  fro,  and  wiped  away  the  large 
drops  that  stood  on  his  red  and  feverish  forehead. 

At  length  the  sermon  was  finished.  He  rose 
and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Slowly  the  clock 
struck  twelve.  He  had  not  heard  it  strike  before, 
since  six.  The  moonlight  silvered  the  distant  hills, 
and  lay,  white  almost  as  snow,  on  the  frosty  roofs 
of  the  village.  Not  a  light  could  be  seen  at  any 
window. 


A   TALE  311 

"  Ungrateful  people  !  Could  you  not  watch  with 
me  one  hour?"  exclaimed  he,  in  that  excited  and 
bitter  moment ;  as  if  he  had  thought  that  on  that 
solemn  night  the  whole  parish  would  have  watched, 
while  he  was  writing  his  farewell  discourse.  He 
pressed  his  hot  brow  against  the  window-pane  to 
allay  its  fever,  and  across  the  tremulous  wavelets 
of  the  river  the  tranquil  moon  sent  towards  him  a 
silvery  shaft  of  light,  like  an  angelic  salutation. 
And  the  consoling  thought  came  to  him  that  not 
only  this  river,  but  all  rivers  and  lakes,  and  the 
great  sea  itseK,  were  flashing  with  this  heavenly 
light,  though  he  beheld  it  as  a  single  ray  only ; 
and  that  what  to  him  were  the  dark  waves  were 
the  dark  providences  of  God,  luminous  to  others, 
and  even  to  himself  should  he  change  his  position. 

VII. 

The  morning  came  —  the  dear,  delicious,  silent 
Sunday  ;  to  the  weary  workman,  both  of  brain  and 
hand,  the  beloved  day  of  rest.  When  the  first 
bell  rang,  like  a  brazen  mortar,  it  seemed  from  its 
gloomy  fortress  to  bombard  the  village  with  burst- 
ing shells  of  sound,  that  exploded  over  the  houses, 
shattering  the  ears  of  all  the  parishioners,  and 
shaking  the  consciences  of  many. 

Mr.  Pendexter  was  to  preach  his  farewell  ser- 
mon. The  church  was  crowded,  and  only  one  per- 
son came  late.  It  was  a  modest,  meek  girl,  who 
stole  silently  up  one  of  the  side  aisles,  —  not  so 
silently,  however,  but  that  the  pew-door  creaked  a 
Uttle  as  she  opened  it ;  and  straightway  a  hundred 


312  KAVANAGH 

heads  were  turned  in  that  direction,  although  it 
was  in  the  midst  of  the  prayer.  Old  Mrs.  Fair- 
field did  not  turn  round,  but  she  and  her  daughter 
looked  at  each  other,  and  their  bonnets  made  a 
parenthesis  in  the  prayer,  within  which  one  asked 
•what  that  was,  and  the  other  replied,  — 

"  It  is  only  Alice  Archer.  She  always  comes 
late." 

Finally  the  long  prayer  was  ended,  and  the  con- 
gregation sat  down,  and  the  weary  children  —  who 
are  always  restless  during  prayers,  and  had  been 
for  nearly  half  an  hour  twisting  and  turning,  and 
standing  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other, 
and  hanging  their  heads  over  the  backs  of  the 
pews,  like  tired  colts  looking  into  neighboring  pas- 
tures —  settled  suddenly  down,  and  subsided  into 
something  like  rest. 

The  sermon  began,  —  such  a  sermon  as  had 
never  been  preached,  or  even  heard  of  before.  It 
brought  many  tears  into  the  eyes  of  the  pastor's 
friends,  and  made  the  stoutest  hearts  among  his 
foes  quake  with  something  like  remorse.  As  he 
announced  the  text,  "  Yea,  I  think  it  meet  as  long 
as  I  am  in  this  tabernacle  to  stir  you  up,  by  put- 
ting you  in  remembrance,"  it  seemed  as  if  the 
apostle  Peter  himself,  from  whose  pen  the  words 
first  proceeded,  were  calling  them  to  judgment. 

He  began  by  giving  a  minute  sketch  of  his  min- 
istry and  the  state  of  the  parish,  with  all  its  trou- 
bles and  dissensions,  social,  political,  and  ecclesias- 
tical. He  concluded  by  thanking  those  ladies  who 
had  presented  him  with  a  black  silk  gown,  and 
had  been  kind  to  his  wife  during  her  long  illness; 


A    TALE  313 

by  apologizing  for  having  neglected  his  own  busi- 
ness, which  was  to  study  and  preach,  in  order  to  at- 
tend to  that  of  the  parish,  which  was  to  support  its 
minister,  —  stating  that  his  own  shortcomings  had 
been  owing  to  theirs,  which  had  driven  him  into  the 
woods  in  winter  and  into  the  fields  in  summer; 
and  finally  by  telling  the  congregation  in  general 
that  they  were  so  confirmed  in  their  bad  habits, 
that  no  reformation  was  to  be  expected  in  them 
under  his  ministry,  and  that  to  produce  one  would 
require  a  greater  exercise  of  Divine  power  than  it 
did  to  create  the  world  ;  for  in  creating  the  world 
there  had  been  no  opposition,  whereas,  in  their  ref- 
ormation, their  own  obstinacy  and  evil  propen- 
sities, and  self-seeking,  and  worldly-mindedness, 
were  all  to  be  overcome  ! 


VIII. 

When  Mr.  Pendexter  had  finished  his  discourse, 
and  pronounced  his  last  benediction  upon  a  con- 
gregation to  whose  spiritual  wants  he  had  minis- 
tered for  so  many  years,  his  people,  now  his  no 
more,  returned  home  in  very  various  states  of 
mind.  Some  were  exasperated,  others  mortified, 
and  others  filled  with  pity. 

Among  the  last  was  Alice  Archer,  —  a  fair,  del- 
icate girl,  whose  whole  life  had  been  saddened  by 
a  too  sensitive  organization  and  by  somewhat  un- 
toward circumstances.  She  had  a  pale,  transpar- 
ent complexion  and  large  gray  eyes,  that  seemed 
to  see  visions.  Her  figure  was  slight,  almost  frag- 
ile; her  hands  white,  slender,  diaphanous.     With 


y 


314  KAVANAGH 

these  external  traits  her  character  was  in  unison. 
She  was  thoughtful,  silent,  susceptible  ;  often  sad, 
often  in  tears,  often  lost  in  reveries.  She  led  a 
lonely  life  with  her  mother,  who  was  old,  queru- 
lous, and  nearly  blind.  She  had  herself  inherited  a 
predisposition  to  blindness,  and  in  her  disease  there 
was  this  peculiarity,  that  she  could  see  in  Sum- 
mer, but  in  Winter  the  power  of  vision  failed  her. 

The  old  house  they  lived  in,  with  its  four  sickly 
Lombardy  poplars  in  front,  suggested  gloomy  and 
mournful  thoughts.  It  was  one  of  those  houses 
that  depress  you  as  you  enter,  as  if  many  persons 
had  died  in  it,  —  sombre,  desolate,  silent.  The 
very  clock  in  the  hall  had  a  dismal  sound,  gasp- 
ing and  catching  its  breath  at  times,  and  striking 
the  hour  with  a  violent,  determined  blow,  remind- 
ing one  of  Jael  driving  the  nail  into  the  head  of 
Sisera. 

One  other  inmate  the  house  had,  and  only  one. 
This  was  Sally  Manchester,  or  Miss  Sally  Man- 
chester, as  she  preferred  to  be  called  ;  an  excellent 
chambermaid  and  a  very  bad  cook,  for  she  served 
in  both  capacities.  She  was,  indeed,  an  extraor- 
dinary woman,  of  large  frame  and  masculine 
features ;  —  one  of  those  who  are  born  to  work, 
and  accept  their  inheritance  of  toil  as  if  it  were 
play,  and  who  consequently,  in  the  language  of 
domestic  recommendations,  are  usually  styled  "a 
treasure,  if  you  can  get  her."  A  treasure  she  was 
to  this  family  ;  for  she  did  all  the  housework,  and 
in  addition  took  care  of  the  cow  and  the  poultry, 
—  occasionally  venturing  into  the  field  of  veter- 
inary practice,  and  administering  lamp-oil  to  the 


A    TALE  315 

cock,  when  she  thought  he  crowed  hoarsely.  She 
had  on  her  forehead  what  is  sometimes  denomi- 
nated a  "  widow's  peak,"  —  that  is  to  say,  her  hair 
grew  down  to  a  point  in  the  middle ;  and  on  Sun- 
days she  appeared  at  church  in  a  blue  poplin  gown, 
with  a  large  pink  bow  on  what  she  called  "  the 
conoreg'ation  side  of  her  bonnet."  Her  mind  was 
strong,  like  her  person  ;  her  disposition  not  sweet, 
but,  as  is  sometimes  said  of  apples  by  way  of  rec- 
ommendation, a  pleasant  sour. 

Such  were  the  inmates  of  the  gloomy  house,  — 
from  which  the  last-mentioned  frequently  expressed 
her  intention  of  retiring,  being  engaged  to  a  trav- 
elling dentist,  who,  in  filling  her  teeth  with  amal- 
gam, had  seized  the  opportunity  to  fill  a  soft  place 
in  her  heart  with  something  still  more  dangerous 
and  mercurial.  The  wedding-day  had  been  from 
time  to  time  postponed,  and  at  length  the  family 
noped  and  believed  it  never  would  come,  —  a  wish 
prophetic  of  its  own  fulfilment. 

Almost  the  only  sunshine  that  from  without 
shone  into  the  dark  mansion  came  from  the  face 
of  Cecilia  Vaughan,  the  school-mate  and  bosom- 
friend  of  Alice  Archer.  They  were  nearly  of  the 
same  age,  and  had  been  drawn  together  by  that 
mysterious  power  which  discovers  and  selects 
friends  for  us  in  our  childhood.  They  sat  together 
in  school ;  they  walked  together  after  school ;  they 
told  each  other  their  manifold  secrets ;  they  wrote 
long  and  impassioned  letters  to  each  other  in  the 
evening ;  in  a  word,  they  were  in  love  with  each 
other.  It  was,  so  to  speak,  a  rehearsal  in  girlhood 
of  the  great  drama  of  woman's  life. 


316  KAVANAGH 

IX. 

The  golden  tints  of  Autumn  now  brightened 
the  shrubbery  around  this  melancholy  house,  and 
took  away  something  of  its  gloom.  The  four 
poplar  trees  seemed  all  ablaze,  and  flickered  in 
the  wind  like  huge  torches.  The  little  border  of 
box  filled  the  air  with  fragrance,  and  seemed  to 
welcome  the  return  of  Alice,  as  she  ascended  the 
steps,  and  entered  the  house  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  usual.  The  brisk  autumnal  air  had  quick- 
ened her  pulse  and  given  a  glow  to  her  cheek. 

She  found  her  mother  alone  in  the  parlor,  seated 
in  her  larsfe  arm-chair.  The  warm  sun  streamed 
in  at  the  uncurtained  windows,  and  lights  and 
shadows  from  the  leaves  lay  upon  her  face.  She 
turned  her  head  as  Alice  entered,  and  said,  — 

"  Who  is  it  ?     Is  it  you,  Alice  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,  mother." 

"  Where  have  you  been  so  long  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  nowhere,  dear  mother.  I  have 
come  directly  home  from  church." 

"  How  long  it  seems  to  me  !  It  is  very  late.  It 
is  growing  quite  dark.  I  was  just  going  to  call 
for  the  lights." 

"  Why,  mother  !  "  exclaimed  Alice,  in  a  startled 
tone ;  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  The  sun  is  shining 
directly  into  your  face  !  " 

"  Impossible,  my  dear  Alice.  It  is  quite  dark. 
I  cannot  see  you.     Where  are  you  ?  " 

She  leaned  over  her  mother  and  kissed  her. 
Both  were  silent,  —  both  wept.  They  knew  that 
the  hour,  so  long  looked  forward  to  with  dismay, 
had  suddenly  come.     Mrs.  Archer  was  blind  J 


A    TALE  317 

This  scene  of  sorrow  was  Interrupted  by  the 
abrupt  entrance  of  Sally  Manchester.  She,  too, 
was  in  tears ;  but  she  was  weeping  for  her  own 
affliction.  In  her  hand  she  held  an  open  letter, 
which  she  gave  to  Alice,  exclaiming  amid  sobs,  — 

"  Read  this.  Miss  Ai-cher,  and  see  how  false 
man  can  be  !  Never  trust  any  man !  They  are  all 
alike  ;  they  are  all  false  —  false —  false  !  " 

Alice  took  the  letter  and  read  as  follows  :  — 

"It  is  with  pleasure.  Miss  Manchester,  I  sit 
down  to  write  you  a  few  lines.  I  esteem  you  as 
higlily  as  ever,  but  Providence  has  seemed  to  order 
and  direct  my  thoughts  and  affections  to  another, 
—  one  in  my  own  neighborhood.  It  was  rather 
unexpected  to  me.  Miss  Manchester,  I  suppose 
you  are  well  aware  that  we,  as  professed  Chris- 
tians, ought  to  be  resigned  to  our  lot  in  this  world. 
May  God  assist  you,  so  that  we  may  be  prepared 
to  join  the  great  company  in  heaven.  Your  an- 
swer woidd  be  very  desirable.  I  respect  your 
virtue,  and  regard  you  as  a  friend. 

"  Martin  Cherryfteld. 

"  P.  S.  The  society  is  generally  pretty  good 
here,  but  the  state  of  religion  is  quite  low." 

"  That  is  a  cruel  letter,  Sally,"  said  Alice,  as 
she  handed  it  back  to  her.  "  But  we  all  have  our 
troubles.  That  man  is  unworthy  of  you.  Think 
no  more  about  him." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Archer, 
hearing  the  counsel  given  and  the  sobs  with  which 
it  was  received.     "  Sally,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 


318  KAVANAGH 

Sally  made  no  answer ;  but  Alice  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Clierr3rfield  has  fallen  in  love  with  some- 
body else." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Archer,  evidently  re- 
lieved. "  She  ought  to  be  very  glad  of  it.  Why 
does  she  want  to  be  married  ?  She  had  much 
better  stay  with  us;  particularly  now  that  I  am 
blind." 

When  Sally  heard  this  last  word,  she  looked  up 
in  consternation.  In  a  moment  she  forgot  her 
own  grief  to  sympathize  with  Alice  and  her 
mother.  She  wanted  to  do  a  thousand  things  at 
once  ;  to  go  here  ;  to  send  there ;  to  get  this  and 
that ;  and  particularly  to  call  all  the  doctors  in 
the  neighborhood.  Alice  assured  her  it  would  be 
of  no  avail,  though  she  finally  consented  that  one 
should  be  sent  for. 

Sally  went  in  search  of  him.  On  her  way,  her 
thoiaghts  reverted  to  herself ;  and,  to  use  her  own 
phrase,  "  she  curbed  in  like  a  stage-horse,"  as  she 
walked.  This  state  of  haughty  and  offended  pride 
continued  for  some  hours  after  her  return  home. 
Later  in  the  day,  she  assumed  a  decent  composure, 
and  requested  that  the  man  —  she  scorned  to  name 
him  —  might  never  again  be  mentioned  in  her 
hearing.  Thus  was  her  whole  dream  of  felicity 
swept  away  by  the  tide  of  fate,  as  the  nest  of  a 
ground-swaUow  by  an  inundation.  It  had  been 
built  too  low  to  be  secui'e. 

Some  women,  after  a  burst  of  passionate  tears, 
are  soft,  gentle,  affectionate  ;  a  warm  and  genial 
air  succeeds  the  rain.  Others  clear  up  cold,  and 
are  breezy,  bleak,  and  dismal.     Of  the  latter  class 


A    TALE  319 

was  Sally  Manchester.  She  became  embittered 
against  all  men  on  account  of  one,  and  was  often 
heard  to  say  that  she  thought  women  were  fools  to 
be  married,  and  that,  for  one,  she  would  not  marry 
any  man,  let  liim  be  who  he  might,  —  not  she ! 

The  village  doctor  came.  He  was  a  large  man, 
of  the  cheerful  kind ;  vigorous,  florid,  encouraging, 
and  pervaded  by  an  indiscriminate  odor  of  drugs. 
Loud  voice,  large  cane,  thick  boots  —  everytliing 
about  him  synonymous  with  noise.  His  presence 
in  the  sick-room  was  like  martial  music,  —  inspirit- 
ing, but  loud.  He  seldom  left  it  without  saying 
to  the  patient,  "  I  hope  you  will  feel  more  com- 
fortable to-morrow,"  or,  "  When  your  fever  leaves 
you,  you  will  be  better."  But,  in  this  instance,  he 
could  not  go  so  far.  Even  his  hopefulness  was 
not  sufficient  for  the  emergency.  Mrs.  Archer 
was  blind,  —  beyond  remedy,  beyond  hope,  —  irrev- 
ocably blind  I 


On  the  following  morning,  very  early,  as  the 
schoolmaster  stood  at  his  door,  inhaling  the  bright, 
wholesome  air,  and  beholding  the  shadows  of  the 
rising  sun,  and  the  flashing  dew-drops  on  the  red 
vine-leaves,  he  heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  saw 
Mr.  Pendexter  and  his  wife  drive  down  the  village 
street  in  their  old-fashioned  chaise,  known  by  all 
the  boys  in  town  as  "  the  ark."  The  old  white 
horse,  that  for  so  many  years  had  stamped  at 
funerals,  and  gnawed  the  tops  of  so  many  posts, 
and  imagined  he  killed  so  many  flies  because  he 


320  KAVANAGH 

wagged  the  stump  of  a  tail,  and,  finally,  had  been 
the  cause  of  so  much  discord  in  the  parish,  seemed 
now  to  make  common  cause  with  his  master,  and 
stepped  as  if  endeavoring  to  shake  the  dust  from 
his  feet  as  he  passed  out  of  the  ungrateful  village. 
Under  the  axle-tree  hung  suspended  a  leather 
trunk;  and  in  the  chaise,  between  the  two  occu- 
pants, was  a  large  bandbox  which  forced  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter  to  let  his  legs  hang  out  of  the  vehicle,  and 
gave  him  the  air  of  imitating  the  Scriptural  be- 
havior of  his  horse.  Gravely  and  from  a  distance 
he  saluted  the  schoolmaster,  who  saluted  him  in 
return,  with  a  tear  in  his  eye,  that  no  man  saw, 
but  which,  nevertheless,  was  not  unseen. 

"  Farewell,  poor  old  man  !  "  said  the  school- 
master within  himself,  as  he  shut  out  the  cold 
autumnal  air,  and  entered  his  comfortable  study. 
"  We  are  not  worthy  of  thee,  or  we  should  have 
bad  thee  with  us  forever.  Go  back  again  to  the 
place  of  thy  childhood,  the  scene  of  thine  early 
labors  and  thine  early  love ;  let  thy  days  end 
where  they  began,  and,  like  the  emblem  of  eter- 
nity, let  the  serpent  of  life  coil  itself  round  and 
take  its  tail  into  its  mouth,  and  be  still  from  all 
its  hissings  f orevermore !  I  would  not  call  thee 
back ;  for  it  is  better  thou  shouldst  be  where  thou 
art,  than  amid  the  angry  contentions  of  this  little 
town." 

Not  all  took  leave  of  the  old  clergyman  in  so 
kindly  a  spirit.  Indeed,  there  was  a  pretty  gen- 
eral feeling  of  relief  in  the  village,  as  when  one 
gets  rid  of  an  ill-fitting  garment,  or  old-fashioned 
hat,  which  one  neither  wishes  to  wear,  nor  is  quite 
willing  to  throw  away. 


A    TALE  321 

Thus  Mr.  Pendexter  dejiarted  from  the  village. 
A  few  days  afterwards  he  was  seen  at  a  fall  train- 
ing, or  general  muster  of  the  militia,  making  a 
prayer  on  horseback,  with  his  eyes  wide  open ;  a 
performance  in  which  he  took  evident  delight,  as 
it  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  going  quite  at  large 
into  some  of  the  bloodiest  campaigns  of  the  an- 
cient Hebrews. 


XI. 

For  a  while  the  schoolmaster  walked  to  and  fro, 
looking  at  the  gleam  of  the  sunshine  on  the  carpet, 
and  revelling  in  his  day-dreams  of  unwritten  books 
and  literary  fame.  With  these  day-dreams  min- 
gled confusedly  the  pattering  of  little  feet,  and  the 
murmuring  and  cooing  of  his  children  overhead. 
His  plans  that  morning,  could  he  have  executed 
them,  woidd  have  filled  a  shelf  in  his  library  with 
poems  and  romances  of  his  own  creation.  But 
suddenly  the  vision  vanished,  and  another  from 
the  actual  world  took  its  place.  It  was  the  canvas- 
covered  cart  of  the  butcher,  that,  like  the  flying 
wigwam  of  the  Indian  tale,  flitted  before  his  eyes. 
It  drove  up  the  yard  and  stopped  at  the  back 
door;  and  the  poet  felt  that  the  sacred  rest  of 
Sunday,  the  God's-truce  with  worldly  cares,  was 
once  more  at  an  end.  A  dark  hand  passed  be- 
tween him  and  the  land  of  light.  Suddenly  closed 
the  ivory  gate  of  dreams,  and  the  horn  gate  of 
e very-day  life  opened,  and  he  went  forth  to  deal 
with  the  man  of  flesh  and  blood. 

"  Alas !  "  said  he  with  a  sigh ;  ''  and  must  my 


322  KAVANAGH 

life,  then,  always  be  like  the  Sabbatical  river  of  the 
Jews,  flowing  in  full  stream  only  on  the  seventh 
day,  and  sandy  and  arid  all  the  rest  ?  " 

Then  he  thought  of  his  beautiful  wife  and  chil- 
dren, and  added,  half  aloud,  — 

"  No ;  not  so  !  Rather  let  me  look  upon  the 
seven  days  of  the  week  as  the  seven  magic  rings  of 
Jarchas,  each  inscribed  with  the  name  of  a  separate 
planet,  and  each  possessing  a  peculiar  power  ;  — 
or,  as  the  seven  sacred  and  mysterious  stones  which 
the  pilgrims  of  Mecca  were  forced  to  throw  over 
their  shoulders  in  the  valleys  of  Menah  and  Akbah, 
cursing  the  devil  and  saying  at  each  throw,  '  God 
is  great ! '  " 

He  found  Mr.  Wilmerdings,  the  butcher,  stand- 
ing beside  his  cart,  and  surrounded  by  five  cats, 
that  had  risen  simultaneously  on  their  hind  legs,  to 
receive  their  quotidian  morning's  meal.  Mr.  Wil- 
merdings not  only  supplied  the  village  with  fresh 
provisions  daily,  but  he  likewise  weighed  all  the 
ba,bies.  There  was  hardly  a  child  in  town  that  had 
not  himg  beneath  his  steelyards,  tied  in  a  silk 
handkerchief,  the  movable  weight  above  sliding 
along  the  notched  beam  from  eight  pounds  to 
twelve.  He  was  a  young  man  with  a  very  fresh 
and  rosy  complexion,  and  every  Monday  morning 
he  appeared  dressed  in  an  exceedingly  white  frock. 
He  had  lately  married  a  milliner,  who  sold  "  Dun- 
stable and  eleven-braid,  openwork  and  colored 
straws,"  and  their  bridal  tour  had  been  to  a  neigh- 
boring town  to  see  a  man  hanged  for  murdering 
his  wife.  A  pair  of  huge  ox-horns  branched  from 
the  gable  of  his  slaughter-house,  and  near  it  stood 


A    TALE  323 

the  great  pits  of  the  tannery,  which  all  the  school- 
boys thought  were  filled  with  blood  ! 

Perhaps  no  two  men  could  be  more  unlike  than 
Mr.  Churchill  and  Mr.  Wilmerdings.  Upon  such 
a  grating  iron  hinge  opened  the  door  of  his  daily 
life  —  opened  into  the  school-room,  the  theatre  of 
those  life-long  labors,  which  theoretically  are  the 
most  noble,  and  practically  the  most  vexatious  in 
the  world.  Toward  this,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was 
over,  and  he  had  plaj^ed  a  while  with  his  children, 
he  directed  his  steps.  On  his  way,  he  had  many 
glimpses  into  the  lovely  realms  of  Nature,  and  one 
into  those  of  Art,  through  the  medium  of  a  placard 
pasted  against  a  wall.     It  was  as  follows :  — 

"  The  subscriber  professes  to  take  profiles,  plain 
and  shaded,  which,  viewed  at  right-angles  with  the 
serious  countenance,  are  warranted  to  be  infallibly 
correct. 

"  No  trouble  of  adorning  or  dressing  the  per- 
son is  required.  He  takes  infants  and  children 
at  sight,  and  has  frames  of  all  sizes  to  accommo- 
date. 

"  A  profile  is  a  delineated  outline  of  the  exterior 
form  of  any  person's  face  and  head,  the  use  of 
which  when  seen  tends  to  vivify  the  affections  of 
those  whom  we  esteem  or  love, 

"  William  Bantam." 

Erelong  even  this  glimpse  into  the  ideal  world 
had  vanished  ;  and  he  felt  himself  bound  to  the 
earth  with  a  hundred  invisible  threads,  by  which 
a  hundi'ed  urchins  were  tugging  and  tormenting 


824  KAVANAGH 

him  ;  and  it  was  only  with  considerable  effort,  and 
at  intervals,  that  his  mind  could  soar  to  the  moral 
dignity  of  his  profession. 

Such  was  the  schoolmaster's  life,  and  a  dreary, 
weary  life  it  would  have  been,  had  not  poetry 
from  within  gushed  through  every  crack  and 
crevice  in  it.  This  transformed  it,  and  made  it 
resemble  a  well,  into  which  stones  and  rubbish 
have  been  throvm ;  but  underneath  is  a  spring  of 
fresh,  pure  water,  which  nothing  external  can  ever 
check  or  defile. 


XII. 

Mr.  Pendexter  had  departed.  Only  a  few  old 
and  middle-aged  people  regretted  him.  To  these 
few,  something  was  wanting  in  the  service  ever 
afterwards.  They  missed  the  accounts  of  the  He- 
brew massacres,  and  the  wonderful  tales  of  the 
Zumzummims ;  they  missed  the  venerable  gray 
hair,  and  the  voice  that  had  spoken  to  them  in 
childhood,  and  forever  preserved  the  memory  of 
it  in  their  hearts,  as  in  the  Kussian  Church  the 
old  hymns  of  the  earliest  centuries  are  still  piously 
retained. 

The  winter  came,  with  all  its  affluence  of  snows, 
and  its  many  candidates  for  the  vacant  pulpit. 
But  the  parish  was  difficult  to  please,  as  all  par- 
ishes are  ;  and  talked  of  dividing  itself,  and  build- 
ing a  new  church,  and  other  extravagances,  as  all 
})arishes  do.  Finally  it  concluded  to  remain  as  it 
was,  and  the  choice  of  a  pastor  was  made. 

The  events  of  the  winter  were  few  in  number, 


A    TALE  325 

and  can  be  easily  described.  The  following  ex- 
tract from  a  scliool-girrs  letter  to  an  absent  friend 
contains  the  most  important :  — 

"  At  school,  things  have  gone  on  pretty  much  as 
usual.  Jane  Brown  has  grown  very  pale.  They 
say  she  is  in  a  consumption,  but  I  think  it  is 
because  she  eats  so  many  slate-pencils.  One  of  her 
shoulders  has  grown  a  good  deal  higher  than  the 
other.  Billy  Wilmerdings  has  been  turned  out 
of  school  for  playing  truant.  He  promised  his 
mother,  if  she  would  not  whip  him,  he  would  expe- 
rience religion.  I  am  sure  I  wish  he  would ;  for 
then  he  would  stop  looking  at  me  through  the  hole 
in  the  top  of  his  desk.  Mr.  Churchill  is  a  very 
curious  man.  To-day  he  gave  us  this  question  in 
arithmetic  :  '  One  fifth  of  a  hive  of  bees  flew  to  the 
Kadamba  flower ;  one  third  flew  to  the  Silandhara ; 
three  times  the  difference  of  these  two  numbers 
flew  to  an  arbor;  and  one  bee  continued  flying 
about,  attracted  on  each  side  by  the  fragrant  Ke- 
taki  and  the  Malati.  What  was  the  number  of 
bees  ?  '     Nobody  could  do  the  sum. 

"  The  church  has  been  repaired,  and  we  have  a 
new  mahogany  pulpit.  Mr.  Churchill  bought  the 
old  one,  and  had  it  put  up  in  his  study.  What  a 
strange  man  he  is  !  A  good  many  candidates  have 
preached  for  us.  The  only  one  we  like  is  Mr. 
Kavanagh.  Arthur  Kavanagh !  is  not  that  a  ro- 
mantic name  ?  He  is  tall,  very  pale,  with  beautiful 
black  eyes  and  hair  !  Sally  —  Alice  Archer's  *^ 
Sally  —  says  '  he  is  not  a  man  ;  he  is  a  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw ! '  I  think  he  is  very  handsome.  And 
such  sermons  !    So  beautifully  written,  so  different 


826  KAVANAGII 

from  old  Mr.  Pendexter's !  He  has  been  invited 
to  settle  here,  but  he  cannot  come  till  Spring. 
Last  Sunday  he  preached  about  the  ruling  passion. 
He  said  that  once  a  German  nobleman,  when  he 
was  dying,  had  his  hunting-horn  blown  in  his  bed- 
room, and  his  hounds  let  in,  springing  and  howling 
about  him ;  and  that  so  it  was  with  the  ruling  pas- 
sions of  men  ;  even  around  the  death-bed,  at  the 
well-known  signal,  they  howled  and  leaped  about 
those  that  had  fostered  them !  Beautiful,  is  it 
not?  and  so  original !  He  said  in  another  sermon, 
that  disappointments  feed  and  nourish  us  in  the 
desert  places  of  life,  as  the  ravens  did  the  Prophet 
in  the  wilderness  ;  and  that  as,  in  Catholic  coun- 
tries, the  lamps  lighted  before  the  images  of  saints, 
in  narrow  and  dangerous  streets,  not  only  served  as 
offerings  of  devotion,  but  likewise  as  lights  to  those 
who  passed,  so,  in  the  dark  and  dismal  streets  of 
the  city  of  Unbelief,  every  good  thought,  word,  and 
deed  of  a  man,  not  only  was  an  offering  to  heaven, 
but  likewise  served  to  light  him  and  others  on  their 
way  homeward  !  I  have  taken  a  good  many  notes 
of  Mr.  Kavanagh's  sermons,  which  you  shall  see 
when  you  come  back. 

"  Last  week  we  had  a  sleigh-ride,  with  six  white 
horses.  We  went  like  the  wind  over  the  hollows 
in  the  snow  ;  —  the  driver  called  them  '  thank-you- 
ma'ams,'  because  they  made  everybody  bow.  And 
such  a  frantic  ball  as  we  had  at  Beaverstock  !  I 
wish  you  had  been  there  !  We  did  not  get  home 
till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  ;  and  the  next  day 
Hester  Green's  minister  asked  her  if  she  did  not 
feel  the  fire  of  a  certain  place  growing  hot  under 
her  feet,  while  she  was  dancing ! 


A    TALE  327 

"The  new  fashionable  boarding-school  begins 
next  week.  The  prospectus  has  been  sent  to  our 
house.  One  of  the  regulations  is,  '  Young  ladies 
are  not  allowed  to  cross  their  benders  in  school ' ! 
Papa  says  he  never  heard  knees  called  so  before. 
Old  Mrs.  Plainfield  is  gone  at  last.  Just  before 
she  died,  her  Irish  chambermaid  asked  her  if  she 
wanted  to  be  buried  with  her  false  teeth  !  There 
has  not  been  a  single  new  engagement  since  you 
went  away.  But  somebody  asked  me  the  other 
day  if  you  were  engaged  to  Mr.  Pillsbury.  I  was 
very  angry.  Pillsbury,  indeed !  He  is  old  enough 
to  be  your  father  ! 

"  What  a  long,  rambling  letter  I  am  writing 
you  !  —  and  only  because  you  will  be  so  naughty 
as  to  stay  away  and  leave  me  all  alone.  If  you 
could  have  seen  the  moon  last  night !  But  what  a 
goose  I  am  !  —  as  if  you  did  not  see  it !  Was  it 
not  glorious?  You  cannot  imagine,  dearest,  how 
every  hour  in  the  day  I  wish  you  were  here  with 
me.  I  know  you  would  sympathize  with  all  my 
feelings,  which  Hester  does  not  at  all.  For,  if  I 
admire  the  moon,  she  says  I  am  romantic,  and,  for 
her  part,  if  there  is  anything  she  despises,  it  is  the 
moon !  and  that  she  prefers  a  snug,  warm  bed  (oh, 
horrible !)  to  all  the  moons  in  the  universe  !  " 

XIII. 

The  events  mentioned  in  this  letter  were  the 
principal  ones  that  occurred  during  the  winter. 
The  case  of  Billy  Wilmerdings  grew  quite  desper- 
ate,    in  vain  did  his  father  threaten  and  the  school- 


328  KA  VANA  Gil 

master  expostulate ;  he  was  only  the  more  sullen  and 
stubborn.  In  vain  did  his  mother  represent  to  his 
weary  mind,  that,  if  he  did  not  study,  the  boys  who 
knew  the  dead  languages  would  throw  stones  at 
him  in  the  street ;  he  only  answered  that  he  should 
like  to  see  them  try  it.  Till,  finally,  having  lost 
many  of  his  illusions,  and  having  even  discovered 
that  his  father  was  not  the  greatest  man  in  the 
world,  on  the  breaking  up  of  the  ice  in  the  river, 
to  his  own  infinite  relief  and  that  of  the  whole 
village,  he  departed  on  a  coasting  trip  in  a  fore- 
and-aft  schooner,  which  constituted  the  entire  navi- 
gation of  Fairmeadow. 

Mr.  Churchill  had  really  put  up  in  his  study 
the  old  white  pulpit,  shaped  like  a  wine-glass. 
It  served  as  a  play-house  for  his  children,  who, 
whether  in  it  or  out  of  it,  daily  preached  to  his 
heart,  and  were  a  living  illustration  of  the  way  to 
enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Moreover,  he 
himself  made  use  of  it  externally  as  a  note-book, 
recording  his  many  meditations  with  a  pencil  on 
the  white  panels.  The  following  will  serve  as  a 
specimen  of  this  pulpit  eloquence  :  — 

Morality  without  religion  is  only  a  kind  of  dead- 
reckoning,  —  an  endeavor  to   find   our  place  on 
a  cloudy  sea  by  measuring  the  distance  we  have 
run,  but  without  any  observation  of  the  heavenly . 
bodies. 

Many  readers  judge  of  the  power  of  a  book  by 
the  shock  it  gives  their  feelings,  —  as  some  savage 
tribes  determine  the  power  of  muskets  by  their 


A   TALE  329 

recoil ;   that   being  considered   best  which  fairly 
prostrates  the  purchaser. 

Men  of  genius  are  often  dull  and  inert  in  so- 
ciety ;  as  the  blazing  meteor,  when  it  descends  to 
earth,  is  only  a  stone. 

The  natural  alone  is  permanent.  Fantastic  idols 
may  be  worshipped  for  a  while ;  but  at  length 
they  are  overturned  by  the  continual  and  silent 
progress  of  Truth,  as  the  grim  statues  of  Copan 
have  been  pushed  from  their  pedestals  by  the 
growth  of  forest-trees,  whose  seeds  were  sown  by 
the  wind  in  the  ruined  walls. 

The  every-day  cares  and  duties,  which  men  call 
drudgery,  are  the  weights  and  counterpoises  of  the 
clock  of  time,  giving  its  pendulum  a  true  vibra- 
tion, and  its  hands  a  regular  motion ;  and  when 
they  cease  to  hang  upon  the  wheels,  the  pendulum 
no  longer  swings,  the  hands  no  longer  move,  the 
clock  stands  still. 

The  same  object,  seen  from  the  three  different 
points  of  view,  —  the  Past,  the  Present,  and  the 
Future,  —  often  exhibits  three  different  faces  to  us ; 
like  those  sign-boards  over  shop  doors,  which  rep- 
resent the  face  of  a  lion  as  we  approach,  of  a 
man  when  we  are  in  front,  and  of  an  ass  when  we 
have  passed. 

In  character,  in  manners,  in  style,  in  all  things, 
the  supreme  excellence  is  simplicity. 


i^30  KAVANAGII 

Witli  many  readers,  brilliancy  of  style  passes 
for  affluence  of  thought ;  they  mistake  buttercups 
in  the  grass  for  immeasurable  gold  mines  under 
ground. 

The  motives  and  purposes  of  authors  are  not 
always  so  pure  and  high  as,  in  the  enthusiasm  of 
youth,  we  sometimes  imagine.  To  many  the  trum- 
pet of  fame  is  nothing  but  a  tin  horn  to  call  them 
home,  like  laborers  from  the  field,  at  dinner-time ; 
and  they  think  themselves  lucky  to  get  the  dinner. 

The  rays  of  happiness,  like  those  of  light,  are 
colorless  when  unbroken. 

Critics  are  sentinels  in  the  grand  army  of  letters, 
stationed  at  the  corners  of  newspapers  and  re- 
views, to  challenge  every  new  author. 

The  country  is  lyric,  —  the  town  dramatic. 
When  mingled,  they  make  the  most  perfect  mu- 
sical drama. 

Our  passions  never  wholly  die ;  but  in  the  last 
cantos  of  life's  romantic  epos,  they  rise  up  again 
and  do  battle,  like  some  of  Ariosto's  heroes,  who 
have  already  been  quietly  interred,  and  ought  to  be 
turned  to  dust. 

This  country  is  not  priest-ridden,  but  press- 
ridden. 

Some  critics  have  the  habit  of   rowing  up  the 


A    TALE  331 

Heliconian  rivers  with  their  backs  turned,  so  as  to 
see  the  landscape  precisely  as  the  poet  did  not  see 
it.  Others  see  faults  in  a  book  much  larger  than 
the  book  itself ;  as  Sancho  Panza,  with  his  eyes 
blinded,  beheld  from  his  wooden  horse  the  earth 
no  larger  than  a  grain  of  mustard-seed,  and  the 
men  and  women  on  it  as  large  as  hazel-nuts. 

Like  an  inundation  of  the  Indus  is  the  course  of 
Time.  We  look  for  the  homes  of  our  childhood, 
they  are  gone  ;  for  the  friends  of  our  childhood, 
they  are  gone.  The  loves  and  animosities  of 
youth,  where  are  they  ?  Swept  away  like  the 
camjjs  that  had  been  pitched  in  the  sandy  bed  of 
the  river. 

As  no  saint  can  be  canonized  until  the  Devil's 
Advocate  has  exposed  all  his  evil  deeds,  and 
showed  why  he  should  not  be  made  a  saint,  so  no 
poet  can  take  his  station  among  the  gods  until  the 
critics  have  said  all  that  can  be  said  against  him. 

It  is  curious  to  note  the  old  sea-margins  of  hu- 
man thought !  Each  subsiding  century  reveals 
some  new  mystery  ;  we  build  where  monsters  used 
to  hide  themselves. 


XIV. 

At  length  the  Spring  came,  and  brought  the 
birds,  and  the  flowers,  and  Mr.  Kavanagh,  the  new 
clergyman,  who  was  ordained  with  all  the  pomp 
and  ceremony  usual  on  such  occasions.     The  open- 


332  KAVANAGH 

ing  of  the  season  furnished  also  the  theme  of  his 
first  discourse,  which  some  of  the  congregation 
thought  very  beautiful,  and  others  very  incompre- 
hensible. 

Ah,  hovtr  wonderful  is  the  advent  of  the  Spring ! 
—  the  great  annual  miracle  of  the  blossoming  of 
Aaron's  rod,  repeated  on  myriads  and  myriads  of 
branches !  —  the  gentle  progression  and  growth 
of  herbs,  flowers,  trees,  —  gentle,  and  yet  irre- 
pressible, —  which  no  force  can  stay,  no  violence 
restrain,  like  love,  that  wins  its  way  and  cannot  be 
withstood  by  any  human  power,  because  itself  is 
divine  power.  If  Spring  came  but  once  a  century, 
instead  of  once  a  year,  or  burst  forth  with  the 
sound  of  an  earthquake,  and  not  in  silence,  what 
wonder  and  expectation  would  there  be  in  all 
hearts  to  behold  the  miraculous  change! 

But  now  the  silent  succession  suggests  nothing 
but  necessity.  To  most  men,  only  the  cessation  of 
the  miracle  would  be  miraculous,  and  the  perpetual 
exercise  of  God's  power  seems  less  wonderful  than 
its  withdrawal  would  be.  We  are  like  children 
who  are  astonished  and  delighted  only  by  the 
second-hand  of   the  clock,  not  by  the  hour-hand. 

Such  was  the  train  of  thought  with  which 
Kavanagh  commenced  his  sermon.  And  then, 
with  deep  solemnity  and  emotion,  he  proceeded  to 
speak  of  the  Spring  of  the  soul,  as  from  its  cheer- 
less wintry  distance  it  turns  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  great  Sun,  and  clothes  its  dry  and  withered 
branches  anew  with  leaves  and  blossoms,  unfolded 
from  within  itself,  beneath  the  penetrating  and 
irresistible  influence. 


A    TALE  333 

While  delivering  the  discourse,  Kavanagh  had 
not  succeeded  so  entirely  in  abstracting  himself 
from  all  outward  things  as  not  to  note  in  some 
degree  its  effect  upon  his  hearers.  As  in  modern 
times  no  applause  is  permitted  in  our  churches, 
however  moved  the  audience  may  be,  and,  conse- 
quently, no  one  dares  wave  his  hat  and  shout,  — 
"  Orthodox  Chrysostom  !  Thirteenth  Apostle  ! 
Worthy  the  Priesthood  !  "  —  as  was  done  in  the 
days  of  the  Christian  Fathers ;  and,  moreover,  as 
no  one  after  church  spoke  to  him  of  his  sermon,  or 
of  anything  else,  he  went  home  with  rather  a 
heavy  heart,  and  a  feeling  of  discouragement.  One 
tiling  had  cheered  and  consoled  him.  It  was  the 
pale  countenance  of  a  young  girl,  whose  dark  eyes 
had  been  fixed  upon  him  during  the  whole  dis- 
course with  unflagging  interest  and.  attention.  She 
sat  alone  in  a  pew  near  the  pulpit.  It  was  Alice 
Ai'cher.  Ah !  could  he  have  known  how  deeply 
sank  his  words  into  that  simple  heart,  he  might 
have  shuddered  with  another  kind  of  fear  than 
that  of  not  moving  his  audience  sufficiently  ! 

XV. 

On  the  following  morning  Kavanagh  sat  musing 
upon  his  worldly  affairs,  and  upon  various  little 
household  arrangements  which  it  would  be  neces- 
sary for  him  to  make.  To  aid  him  in  these,  he 
had  taken  up  the  village  paper,  and  was  running 
over  the  columns  of  advertisements,  —  those  nar- 
row and  crowded  thoroughfares,  in  which  the 
wants  and  wishes  of  humanity  display  themselves 


334  KAVANAGH 

like  mendicants  without  disguise.  His  eye  ran 
hastily  over  the  advantageous  offers  of  the  cheap 
tailors  and  the  dealers  in  patent  medicines.  He 
wished  neither  to  be  clothed  nor  cured.  In  one 
place  he  saw  that  a  young  lady,  perfectly  compe- 
tent, desired  to  form  a  class  of  young  mothers  and 
nurses,  and  to  instruct  them  in  the  art  of  talking 
to  infants  so  as  to  interest  and  amuse  them ;  and 
in  another,  that  the  firemen  of  Fairmeadow  wished 
well  to  those  hostile  editors  who  had  called  them 
gamblers,  drunkards,  and  rioters,  and  hoped  that 
they  might  be  spared  from  that  great  fire  which 
they  were  told  could  never  be  extinguished  ! 
Finally,  his  eye  rested  on  the  advertisement  of  a 
carpet  warehouse,  in  which  the  one-price  system 
was  strictly  adhered  to.  It  was  farther  stated  that 
a  discount  woidd  be  made  "  to  clergymen  on  small 
salaries,  feeble  churches,  and  charitable  institu- 
tions." Thinking  that  this  was  doubtless  the 
place  for  one  who  united  in  himself  two  of  these 
qualifications  for  a  discount,  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips,  he  took  his  hat  and  sallied  forth  into  the 
street. 

A  few  days  previous,  Kavanagh  had  discovered 
in  the  tower  of  the  church  a  vacant  room,  which 
he  had  immediately  determined  to  take  possession 
of,  and  to  convert  into  a  study.  From  this  re- 
treat, through  the  four  oval  windows,  fronting  the 
four  corners  of  the  heavens,  he  could  look  down 
upon  the  streets,  the  roofs  and  gardens  of  the  vil- 
lage, —  on  the  winding  river,  the  meadows,  the 
farms,  the  distant  blue  mountains.  Here  he  could 
sit  and  meditate,  in  that  peculiar  sense  of  seclusion 


A    TALE  335 

and  spiritual  elevation,  that  entire  separation  from 
the  world  below,  which  a  chamber  in  a  tower  al- 
ways gives.  Here,  uninterrupted  and  aloof  from 
all  intrusion,  he  could  pour  his  heart  into  those 
discourses,  with  which  he  hoped  to  reach  and  move 
the  hearts  of  his  parishioners. 

It  was  to  furnish  this  retreat,  that  he  went  forth 
on  the  Monday  morning  after  his  first  sermon.  He 
was  not  long  in  procuring  the  few  things  needed, 
—  the  carpet,  the  table,  the  chairs,  the  shelves  for 
books  ;  and  was  returning  thoughtfully  homeward, 
when  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  sign-board  on  the 
corner  of  the  street,  inscribed  "  Moses  Merry- 
weather,  Dealer  in  Singing  Birds,  foreign  and  do- 
mestic." He  saw  also  a  whole  chamber-window 
transformed  into  a  cage,  in  which  sundry  canary- 
birds,  and  others  of  a  gayer  plumage,  were  jargon- 
ing  together,  like  peojsle  in  the  market-places  of 
foreign  towns.  At  the  sight  of  these  old  favorites, 
a  long  slumbering  passion  awoke  within  him,  and 
he  straightway  ascended  the  dark  wooden  stair- 
case, with  the  intent  of  enlivening  his  solitary 
room  with  the  vivacity  and  songs  of  these  captive 
ballad-singers. 

In  a  moment  he  found  himself  in  a  little  room 
hung  round  with  cages,  roof  and  walls  ;  full  of 
sunshine  ;  full  of  twitterings,  cooings,  and  flutter- 
ings  ;  full  of  downy  odors,  suggesting  nests,  and 
dovecots,  and  distant  islands  inhabited  only  by 
birds.  The  taxidermist  —  the  Selkirk  of  the  sunny 
island  —  was  not  there  ;  but  a  young  lady  of  noble 
mien,  who  was  looking  at  an  English  goldfinch  in 
a  square  cage  with  a  portico,  turned  upon  him,  as 


336  KAVANAGII 

he  entered,  a  fair  and  beautiful  face,  shaded  by 
long  light  locks,  in  which  the  sunshine  seemed  en- 
tangled, as  among  the  boughs  of  trees.  That  face 
he  had  never  seen  before,  and  yet  it  seemed  famil- 
iar to  him ;  and  the  added  light  in  her  large,  celes- 
tial eyes,  and  the  almost  imi^erceptible  expression 
that  passed  over  her  face,  showed  that  she  knew 
who  he  was. 

At  the  same  moment  the  taxidermist  presented 
himself,  coming  from  an  inner  room  ;  —  a  little 
man  in  gray,  with  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  holding 
in  his  hands,  with  wings  and  legs  dra\vn  close  and 
smoothly  together,  like  the  green  husks  of  the 
maize  ear,  a  beautiful  carrier-pigeon,  who  turned 
uj)  first  one  bright  eye  and  then  the  other,  as  if  ask- 
ing, "  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  now  ?  " 
This  silent  inquiry  was  soon  answered  by  Mr.  Mer- 
ryweather,  who  said  to  the  young  lady,  — 

"  Here,  Miss  Vaughan,  is  the  best  carrier-pigeon 
in  my  whole  collection.  The  real  Columba  Ta- 
bullaria.  He  is  about  three  years  old,  as  you  can 
see  by  his  wattle." 

"  A  very  pretty  bird,"  said  the  lady ;  "  and  how 
shall  I  train  it?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  very  easy.  You  have  only  to  keep 
it  shut  up  for  a  few  days,  well  fed  and  well 
treated.  Then  take  it  in  an  open  cage  to  the 
place  you  mean  it  to  fly  to,  and  do  the  same  thing 
there.  Afterwards  it  will  give  yovi  no  trouble ;  it 
will  always  fly  between  those  two  places." 

"  That,  certainly,  is  not  very  difficult.  At  all 
events,  I  will  make  the  trial.  You  may  send  the 
bird  home  to  me.     On  what  shall  I  feed  it  ?  " 


A    TALE  337 

*•'  On  any  kind  of  grain  ;  barley  and  buckwheat 
are  best ;  and  remember  to  let  it  have  a  plenty  of 
gravel  in  the  bottom  of  its  cage." 

"  I  will  not  forget.  Send  me  the  bird  to-day,  if 
possible." 

With  these  words  she  departed,  much  too  soon 
for  Kavanagh,  who  was  charmed  with  her  form, 
her  face,  her  voice  ;  and  who,  when  left  alone  with 
the  little  taxidermist,  felt  that  the  momentary  fas- 
cination of  the  place  was  gone.  He  heard  no 
longer  the  singing  of  the  birds  ;  he  saw  no  longer 
their  gay  plumage  ;  and  having  speedily  made  the 
purchase  of  a  canary  and  a  cage,  he  likewise  de- 
parted, thinking  of  the  carrier-pigeons  of  Bagdad, 
and  the  columbaries  of  Egypt,  stationed  at  fixed 
intervals  as  relays  and  resting-places  for  the  flying 
post.  With  an  indefinable  feeling  of  sadness,  too, 
game  wafted  like  a  perfume  through  his  memory 
those  tender,  melancholy  lines  of  Maria  del  Occi- 
dente  :  — 

And  as  the  dove,  to  far  Palmyra  flying, 

From  where  her  native  founts  of  Antioeh  beam, 

Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting,  sighing, 
Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter  stream  ; 

So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  desert  faring,  — 

Love's  pure,  congenial  spring  unfound,  unquaffed,  — 

Suffers,  recoils,  then,  thirsty  and  despairing 

Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips  the  nearest  draught. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Merryweather,  left  to  himself, 
walked  about  his  aviary,  musing,  and  talking  to 
his  birds.  Finally  he  paused  before  the  tin  cage 
of  a  gray  African  parrot,  between  which  and  him- 
seK  there  was  a  strong  family  likeness,  and,  giving 


338  KAVANAGH 

it  his  finger  to  peck  and  perch  upon,  conversed 
with  it  in  that  peculiar  dialect  with  which  it  had 
often  made  vocal  the  distant  groves  of  Zanguebar. 
He  then  withdrew  to  the  inner  room,  where  he  re- 
sumed his  labor  of  stuffing  a  cardinal  grossbeak, 
saying  to  himself  between  whiles,  — 

"  I  wonder  what  Miss  Cecilia  Vaughan  means 
to  do  with  a  carrier-pigeon !  " 

Some  mysterious  connection  he  had  evidently 
established  already  between  this  pigeon  and  Mi\ 
Kavanagh  ;  for,  continuing  his  re  very,  he  said, 
half  aloud,  — 

"  Of  course  she  woidd  never  think  of  marrying 
a  poor  clergyman  !  " 

XVI. 

The  old  family  mansion  of  the  Vaughans  stood 
a  little  out  of  town,  in  the  midst  of  a  pleasant 
farm.  The  county  road  was  not  near  enough  to 
annoy,  and  the  rattling  wheels  and  little  clouds  of 
dust  seemed  like  friendly  salutations  from  trav- 
ellers as  they  passed.  They  spoke  of  safety  and 
companionship,  and  took  away  all  loneliness  from 
the  solitude. 

On  three  sides,  the  farm  was  enclosed  by  willow 
and  alder  hedges,  and  the  flowing  wall  of  a  river ; 
nearer  the  house  were  groves  clear  of  all  under- 
wood, with  rocky  knolls,  and  breezy  bowers  of 
beech ;  and  afar  off  the  blue  hills  broke  the  hori- 
zon, creating  secret  longings  for  what  lay  beyond 
them,  and  filling  the  mind  with  pleasant  thoughts 
of  Prince  Rasselas  and  the  Happy  Valley. 


A    TALE  339 

The  house  was  one  of  the  few  old  houses  still 
standing-  in  New  England,  —  a  large,  square  build- 
ing, with  a  portico  in  front,  whose  door  in  Summer 
time  stood  open  from  morning  until  night.  A 
pleasing  stillness  reigned  about  it,  and  soft  gusts 
of  pine-embalmed  air,  and  distant  cawings  from 
the  crow-haunted  mountains,  filled  its  airy  and 
ample  halls. 

In  this  old-fashioned  house  had  Cecilia  Vaughan 
grown  up  to  maidenhood.  The  travelling  shadows 
of  the  clouds  on  the  hillsides,  —  the  sudden  Sum- 
mer wind,  that  lifted  the  languid  leaves,  and  rushed 
from  field  to  field,  from  grove  to  grove,  the  fore- 
runner of  the  rain,  —  and,  most  of  all,  the  myste- 
rious mountain,  whose  coolness  was  a  perpetual  in- 
vitation to  her,  and  whose  silence  a  perpetual  fear, 

—  fostered  her  dreamy  and  poetic  temperament. 
Not  less  so  did  the  reading  of  poetry  and  romance 
in  the  long,  silent,  solitary  winter  evenings.  Her 
mother  had  been  dead  for  many  years,  and  the 
memory  of  that  mother  had  become  almost  a  reli- 
gion to  her.  She  recalled  it  incessantly,  and  the 
reverential  love  which  it  inspired  completely  filled 
her  soul  with  melancholy  delight.  Her  father  was 
a  kindly  old  man,  a  judge  in  one  of  the  courts ; 
dignified,  affable,  somewhat  bent  by  his  legal 
erudition,  as  a  shelf  is  by  the  weight  of  the  books 
upon  it.     His  papers  encumbered  the  study  table, 

—  his  law  books,  the  study  floor.  They  seemed 
to  shut  out  from  his  mind  the  lovely  daughter, 
who  had  grown  up  to  womanhood  by  his  side,  but 
almost  without  his  recognition.  Always  affection- 
ate, always  indulgent,  he  left  her  to  walk  alone. 


340  KAVANAGH 

without  his  stronger  thought  and  firmer  purpose  to 
lean  upon  ;  and  though  her  education  had  been,  on 
this  account,  somewhat  desultory,  and  her  imagina- 
tion indulged  in  many  dreams  and  vagaries,  yet, 
on  the  whole,  the  result  had  been  more  favorable 
than  in  many  cases  where  the  process  of  instruction 
has  been  too  diligently  carried  on,  and  wliere,  as 
sometimes  on  the  roofs  of  farm-houses  and  barns, 
the  scaffolding  has  been  left  to  deform  the  building. 

Cecilia's  bosom-friend  at  school  was  Alice 
Archer ;  and,  after  they  left  school,  the  love  be- 
tween them,  and  consequently  the  letters,  rather 
increased  than  diminished.  These  two  young 
hearts  found  not  only  a  delight,  but  a  necessity,  in 
pouring  forth  their  thoughts  and  feelings  to  each 
other  ;  and  it  was  to  facilitate  this  intercommuni- 
cation, for  whose  exigencies  the  ordinary  methods 
were  now  found  inadequate,  that  the  carrier-pigeon 
had  been  purchased.  He  w^as  to  be  the  flying 
post ;  their  bedrooms  the  dovecots,  the  pure  and 
friendly  columbaria. 

Endowed  with  youth,  beauty,  talent,  fortune, 
and,  moreover,  with  that  indefinable  fascination 
which  has  no  name,  Cecilia  Vaughan  was  not  with- 
out lovers,  avowed  and  unavowed  ;  —  young  men, 
who  made  an  ostentatious  disjjlay  of  their  affec- 
tion ;  —  boys,  who  treasured  it  in  their  bosoms,  as 
something  indescribably  sweet  and  precious,  per- 
fuming all  the  chambers  of  the  heart  with  its 
celestial  fragrance.  Whenever  she  returned  from 
a  visit  to  the  city,  some  unknown  youth  of  elegant 
manners  and  varnished  leather  boots  was  sure  to 
hover  round  the  village  inn  for  a  few  days,  —  was 


A    TALE  341 

known  to  visit  the  Vauglians  assiduously,  and  then 
silently  to  disapjDear,  and  be  seen  no  more.  Of 
course,  nothing  could  he  known  of  the  secret 
history  of  such  individuals,  but  shrewd  surmises 
were  formed  as  to  their  designs  and  their  destinies ; 
till  finally,  any  well-di'cssed  stranger,  lingering  in 
the  village  without  ostensible  business,  was  set 
down  as  "  one  of  Miss  Vaughan's  lovers." 

In  all  this,  what  a  contrast  was  there  between 
the  two  young  friends  !  The  wealth  of  one  and 
the  poverty  of  the  other  were  not  so  strikingly  at 
variance,  as  this  affluence  and  refluence  of  love. 
To  the  one,  so  much  was  given  that  she  became  re- 
gardless of  the  gift ;  from  the  other,  so  much  with- 
held, that,  if  possible,  she  exaggerated  its  impor- 
tance. 


XVII. 

In  addition  to  these  transient  lovers,  who  were 
but  birds  of  passage,  winging  their  way,  in  an  in- 
credibly short  space  of  time,  from  the  torrid  to  the 
frigid  zone,  there  was  in  the  village  a  domestic  and 
resident  adorer,  whose  love  for  himself,  for  Miss 
Vaughan,  and  for  the  beautiful,  had  transformed 
his  name  from  Hiram  A.  Hawkins  to  H.  Adolphus 
Hawkins.  He  was  a  dealer  in  English  linens  and 
carpets  —  a  profession  which  of  itself  fills  the 
mind  with  ideas  of  domestic  comfort.  His  waist- 
coats were  made  like  Lord  Melbourne's  in  the 
illustrated  English  papers,  and  his  shiny  hair  went 
off  to  the  left  in  a  superb  sweep,  like  the  hand-rail 
of  a  banister.     He  wore  many  rings  on  his  fingers, 


342  KAVANAGH 

and  several  breastpins  and  gold  chains  disposed 
about  his  person.  On  all  his  bland  physiognomy 
was  stamped,  as  on  some  of  his  linens,  "  Soft  finish 
for  family  use."  Everything  about  him  spoke  the 
lady's  man.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  perfect  ring-dove ; 
and,  like  the  rest  of  his  species,  always  walked 
up  to  the  female,  and,  bowing  his  head,  swelled 
out  his  white  crop,  and  uttered  a  very  plaintive 
murmur. 

Moreover,  Mr.  H.  Adolphus  Hawkins  was  a 
poet,  —  so  much  a  poet,  that,  as  his  sister  frequently 
remarked,  he  "  spoke  blank  verse  in  the  bosom  of 
his  family."  The  general  tone  of  his  productions 
was  sad,  desponding,  perhaps  slightly  morbid. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  with  the  writings  of  one 
who  had  never  been  the  world's  friend,  nor  the 
world  his  ?  who  looked  upon  himself  as  "a  pyramid 
of  mind  on  the  dark  desert  of  despair  "  ?  and  who, 
at  the  age  of  twenty -five,  had  drunk  the  bitter 
draught  of  life  to  the  dregs,  and  dashed  the  goblet 
down  ?  His  productions  were  published  in  the 
Poet's  Corner  of  the  Fairm6adow  Advertiser,  and 
it  was  a  relief  to  know,  that,  in  private  life,  as  his 
sister  remarked,  he  was  "  by  no  means  the  censo- 
rious and  moody  person  some  of  his  writings  might 
imply." 

Such  was  the  personage  who  assumed  to  himself 
the  perilous  position  of  Miss  Vaughan's  permanent 
lover.  He  imagined  that  it  was  impossible  for 
any  woman  to  look  upon  him  and  not  love  him. 
Accordingly,  he  paraded  himself  at  his  shop-door 
as  she  passed  ;  he  paraded  himself  at  the  corners 
of  the  streets ;  he  paraded  himself  at  the  church. 


A   TALE  843 

steps  on  Sunday.  He  spied  her  from  the  window  •, 
he  sallied  from  the  door  ;  he  followed  her  with  his 
eyes  ;  he  followed  her  with  his  whole  august  per- 
son ;  he  passed  her  and  repassed  her,  and  turned 
back  to  gaze  ;  he  lay  in  wait  with  dejected  counte- 
nance and  desponding-  air  ;  he  persecuted  her  with 
his  looks ;  he  pretended  that  their  souls  could 
comprehend  each  other  without  words  ;  and  when- 
ever her  lovers  were  alluded  to  in  his  presence,  he 
gravely  declared,  as  one  who  had  reason  to  know, 
that,  if  Miss  Vaughan  ever  married,  it  would  be 
some  one  of  gigantic  intellect  ! 

Of  these  persecutions  Cecilia  was  for  a  long 
time  the  unconscious  victim.  She  saw  this  indi- 
vidual, with  rings  and  strange  waistcoats,  perform- 
ing his  gyrations  before  her,  but  did  not  suspect 
that  she  was  the  centre  of  attraction,  —  not  imag- 
ining that  any  man  would  begin  his  wooing  with 
such  outrages.  Gradually  the  truth  dawned  upon 
her,  and  became  the  source  of  indescribable  annoy- 
ance, which  was  augmented  by  a  series  of  anony- 
mous letters,  written  in  a  female  hand,  and  setting 
forth  the  excellences  of  a  certain  mysterious  rela- 
tive, —  his  modesty,  his  reserve,  his  extreme  deli- 
cacy, his  talent  for  poetry,  —  rendered  authentic 
by  extracts  from  his  papers,  made,  of  course,  with- 
out the  slightest  knowledge  or  suspicion  on  his 
part.  Whence  came  these  sibylline  leaves  ?  At 
fii"st  Cecilia  could  not  divine  ;  but,  erelong,  her 
woman's  instinct  traced  them  to  the  thin  and  ner- 
vous hand  of  the  poet's  sister.  This  surmise  was 
confirmed  by  her  maid,  who  asked  the  boy  that 
broueht  them. 


344  AM  VANAGir 

It  was  with  one  of  these  missives  in  her  hand 
that  Cecilia  entered  Mrs.  Archer's  house,  after  pur- 
chasing the  carrier-pigeon.  Unannounced  she  en- 
tei'ed,  and  walked  up  the  narrow  and  imjierfectly 
lighted  stairs  to  Alice's  bedroom,  —  that  little 
sanctuary  draped  with  white,  —  that  columbarium 
lined  with  warmth,  and  softness,  and  silence.  Alice 
was  not  there  ;  but  the  chair  by  the  window,  the 
open  volume  of  Tennyson's  poems  on  the  table,  the 
note  to  Cecilia  by  its  side,  and  the  ink  not  yet  dry 
in  the  pen,  were  like  the  vibration  of  a  bough,  when 
the  bird  has  just  left  it,  —  like  the  rising  of  the 
grass,  when  the  foot  has  just  pressed  it.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  returned.  She  had  been  down  to  her 
mother,  who  sat  talking,  talking,  talking,  with  an 
old  friend  in  the  parlor  below,  even  as  these  young 
friends  were  talking  together,  in  the  bedroom 
above.  Ah,  how  different  were  their  themes ! 
Death  and  Love, — apples  of  Sodom,  that  crum- 
ble to  ashes  at  a  touch,  —  golden  fruits  of  the 
Hesperides,  —  golden  fruits  of  Paradise,  fragrant, 
ambrosial,  perennial ! 

"  I  have  just  been  writing  to  you,"  said  Alice  ; 
"  I  wanted  so  much  to  see  you  this  morning  !  " 

"  Why  this  morning  in  particular  ?  Has  any- 
thing happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  only  I  had    such  a  longing   to    see 

you!" 

And,  seating  herself  in  a  low  chair  by  Cecilia's 
side,  she  laid  her  head  upon  the  shoulder  of  her 
friend,  who,  taking  one  of  her  pale,  thin  hands  in 
both  her  own,  silently  kissed  her  forehead  again 
and  again. 


A    TALE  345 

Aliee  was  not  aware,  that,  in  the  words  she  ut- 
tered, there  was  the  slightest  shadow  of  untruth. 
And  yet  had  nothing  happened  ?  Was  it  nothing, 
that  among  her  thoughts  a  new  thought  had  risen, 
like  a  star,  whose  pale  effulgence,  mingled  with  the 
common  daylight,  was  not  yet  distinctly  visible 
even  to  herself,  but  would  grow  brighter  as  the 
sun  grew  lower,  and  the  rosy  twilight  darker? 
Was  it  nothing,  that  a  new  fountain  of  affection 
had  suddenly  sprung  up  within  her,  which  she  mis- 
took for  the  freshening  and  overflowing  of  the  old 
fountain  of  friendship,  that  hitherto  had  kept  the 
lowland  landscape  of  her  life  so  green,  but  now, 
being  flooded  by  more  affection,  was  not  to  cease, 
but  only  to  disappear  in  the  greater  tide,  and  flow 
unseen  beneath  it  ?  Yet  so  it  was ;  and  this 
stronger  yearning  —  this  unappeasable  desire  for 
her  friend  —  was  only  the  tumultuous  swelling  of 
a  heart,  that  as  yet  knows  not  its  own  secret. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Cecilia ! "  she  con- 
tinued. "  You  are  so  beautiful !  I  love  so  much 
to  sit  and  look  at  you !  Ah,  how  I  wish  Heaven 
had  made  me  as  tall,  and  strong,  and  beautiful  as 


you  are 


"■  You  little  flatterer  !  What  an  affectionate, 
lover-like  friend  you  are  !  What  have  you  been 
doins:  all  the  mornine:  ?  " 

"  Looking  out  of  the  window,  thinking  of  you, 
and  writing  you  this  letter,  to  beg  you  to  come  and 
see  me." 

"  And  I  have  been  buying  a  carrier-pigeon,  to  fly 
between  us,  and  carry  all  our  letters." 

"  That  wiU  be  delightful." 


346  KAVANAGH 

"  lie  is  to  be  sent  home  to-day ;  and  after  he 
gets  accustomed  to  my  room,  I  shall  send  him 
here,  to  get  acquainted  with  yours  ;  —  an  lachimo 
in  my  Imogen's  bedchamber,  to  spy  out  its  se- 
crets." 

"  I£  he  sees  Cleopatra  in  these  white  curtains, 
and  silver  Cupids  in  these  andirons,  he  will  have 
your  imagination." 

"  He  w'ill  see  the  book  with  the  leaf  turned  down, 
and  you  asleep,  and  tell  me  all  about  you." 

"  A  carrier-pigeon  !  What  a  charming  idea ! 
and  how  like  you  to  think  of  it !  " 

"  But  to-day  I  have  been  obliged  to  bring  my 
own  letters.  I  have  some  more  sibylline  leaves 
from  my  anonymous  correspondent,  in  laud  and 
exaltation  of  her  modest  relative,  who  speaks  blank 
verse  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  I  have  brought 
them  to  read  you  some  extracts,  and  to  take  your 
advice ;  for,  really  and  seriously,  this  must  be 
stopped.     It  has  grown  too  annoying." 

"  How  much  love  you  have  offered  you  !  "  said 
Alice,  sighing. 

"  Yes,  quite  too  much  of  this  kind.  On  my 
way  here,  I  saw  the  modest  relative,  standing  at 
the  corner  of  the  street,  hanging  his  head  in  this 
way." 

And  she  imitated  the  melancholy  Hiram  Adol- 
phus,  and  the  young  friends  laughed. 

"  I  hope  you  did  not  notice  him  ?  "  resumed 
Alice. 

"  Certainly  not.  But  what  do  you  suppose  he 
did  ?  As  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  began  to  walk 
backward  down  the  street  only  a  short  distance  in 


A    TALE  347 

front  of  me,  staring  at  me  most  impertinently. 
Of  course,  I  took  no  notice  of  this  strange  con- 
duct. I  felt  myself  blushing  to  the  eyes  with  in- 
dignation, and  yet  could  hardly  suppress  my  desire 
to  laugh." 

"  If  you  had  laughed,  he  would  have  taken  it 
for  an  encouragement,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it 
would  have  brought  on  the  catastroj^he." 

"  And  that  would  have  ended  the  matter.  I  half 
wish  I  had  laughed." 

"  But  think  of  the  immortal  glory  of  marrying 
a  poet !  " 

"  And  of  inscribing  on  my  cards,  Mrs.  H.  Adol- 
phus  Hawkins !  " 

"  A  few  days  ago,  I  went  to  buy  something  at 
his  shop ;  and,  leaning  over  the  counter,  he  asked 
me  if  I  had  seen  the  sun  set  the  evening  before,  — 
adding,  that  it  was  gorgeous,  and  that  the  grass  and 
trees  were  of  a  beautiful  Paris  green  !  " 

And  again  the  young  friends  gave  way  to  their 
mirth. 

"  One  thing,  dear. Alice,  you  must  consent  to  do 
for  me.  You  must  write  to  Miss  Martha  Amelia, 
the  author  of  all  these  epistles,  and  tell  her  very 
plainly  how  indelicate  her  conduct  is,  and  how 
utterly  useless  all  such  proceedings  will  prove  in 
effecting  her  purpose." 

"  I  will  write  this  very  day.  You  shall  be  no 
longer  persecuted." 

"  And  now  let  me  give  you  a  few  extracts  from 
these  wonderful  epistles." 

So  saying,  Cecilia  drew  forth  a  small  package 
of  three-cornered  billets,  tied  with  a  bit  of  pink 


348  KAVANAGH 

ribbon.  Taking  one  of  them  at  random,  she  was 
on  the  point  of  beginning,  but  paused,  as  if  her 
attention  had  been  attracted  by  something  out  of 
doors.  The  sound  of  passing  footsteps  was  heard 
on  the  gravel  walk. 

*'  There  goes  Mr.  Kavanagh,"  said  she,  in  a  half= 
whisper. 

Alice  rose  suddenly  from  her  low  chair  at 
Cecilia's  side,  and  the  young  friends  looked  from 
the  window  to  see  the  clergyman  pass. 

"  How  handsome  he  is !  "  said  Alice,  involun- 
tarily. 

"  He  is,  indeed." 

At  that  moment  Alice  started  back  from  tho 
window.  Kavanagh  had  looked  up  in  passing,  as 
if  his  eye  had  been  drawn  by  some  secret  mag- 
netism. A  bright  color  flushed  the  cheek  of 
Alice ;  her  eyes  fell,  but  Cecilia  continued  to  look 
steadily  into  the  street.  Kavanagh  passed  on,  and 
in  a  few  moments  was  out  of  sight. 

The  two  friends  stood  silent,  side  by  side. 

XVIII. 

Arthur  Kavanagh  was  descended  from  an  an- 
cient Catholic  family.  His  ancestors  had  pur- 
chased from  the  Baron  Victor  of  St.  Castine  a 
portion  of  his  vast  estates,  lying  upon  that  wild 
and  wonderful  sea-coast  of  Maine,  which,  even 
upon  the  map,  attracts  the  eye  by  its  singular  and 
picturesque  indentations,  and  fills  the  heart  of  the 
beholder  with  something  of  that  delight  which 
throbbed  in  the  veins  of  Pierre  du  Gast,  when, 


A    TALE  349 

with  a  royal  charter  of  the  land  from  the  Atlantic 
to  the  Pacific,  he  sailed  down  the  coast  in  all  the 
pride  of  one  who  is  to  be  prince  of  such  a  vast 
domain.  Here,  in  the  bosom  of  the  solemn  for- 
ests, they  continued  the  practice  of  that  faith 
which  had  first  been  planted  there  by  Rasle  and 
St.  Castine ;  and  the  little  church  where  they  wor- 
shipped is  still  standing,  though  now  as  closed  and 
silent  as  the  graves  which  surround  it,  and  in 
which  the  dust  of  the  Kavanaghs  lies  buried. 

In  these  solitudes,  in  this  faith,  was  Kavanagh 
born,  and  grew  to  childhood,  a  feeble,  delicate  boy, 
watched  over  by  a  grave  and  taciturn  father,  and 
a  mother  who  looked  ujion  him  with  infinite  ten- 
derness, as  upon  a  treasure  she  should  not  long 
retain.  She  walked  with  him  by  the  seaside,  and 
spake  to  him  of  God,  and  the  mysterious  majesty 
of  the  ocean,  with  its  tides  and  tempests.  She  sat 
with  him  on  the  carpet  of  golden  threads  beneath 
the  aromatic  pines,  and,  as  the  perpetual  melan- 
choly sound  ran  along  the  rattling  boughs,  his  soul 
seemed  to  rise  and  fall,  with  a  motion  and  a 
whisper  like  those  in  the  branches  over  him.  She 
taught  him  his  letters  from  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints,  —  a  volume  full  of  wondrous  legends,  and 
illustrated  with  engravings  from  pictures  by  the 
old  masters,  which  opened  to  him  at  once  the 
world  of  spirits  and  the  world  of  art ;  and  both 
were  beautiful.  She  explained  to  him  the  pic- 
tures ;  she  read  to  him  the  legends,  —  the  lives  of 
holy  men  and  women,  full  of  faith  and  good  works, 
—  things  which  ever  afterward  remained  associ- 
ated together  in  his  mind.     Thus  holiness  of  life, 


350  KAVANAGH 

and  self-renunciation,  and  devotion  to  duty,  were 
early  inii)re.ssed  upon  his  soul.  To  his  quick  im- 
agination, the  spii'itual  world  became  real ;  the 
holy  company  of  the  saints  stood  round  about  the 
solitary  boy ;  his  guardian  angels  led  him  by  the 
hand  by  day,  and  sat  by  his  pillow  at  night.  At 
times,  even,  he  wished  to  die,  that  he  might  see 
them  and  talk  with  them,  and  return  no  more  to 
his  weak  and  weary  body. 

Of  all  the  legends  of  the  mysterious  book,  that 
which  most  delighted  and  most  deeply  impressed 
him  was  the  legend  of  St.  Christopher.  The  pic- 
ture was  from  a  painting  of  Paolo  Farinato,  repre- 
senting a  figure  of  gigantic  strength  and  stature, 
leaning  upon  a  staff,  and  bearing  the  infant  Christ 
on  his  bending  shoulders  across  the  rushing  river. 
The  legend  related,  that  St.  Christopher,  being  of 
huge  proportions  and  immense  strength,  wandered 
long  about  the  world  before  his  conversion,  seeking 
for  the  greatest  king,  and  willing  to  obey  no  other. 
After  serving  various  masters,  whom  he  in  turn 
deserted,  because  each  recognized  by  some  word 
or  sign  another  greater  than  himself,  he  heard  by 
chance  of  Christ,  the  king  of  heaven  and  earth, 
and  asked  of  a  holy  hermit  where  he  might  be 
found,  and  how  he  might  serve  him.  The  hermit 
told  him  he  must  fast  and  pray,  but  the  giant  re- 
plied that  if  he  fasted  he  should  lose  his  strength, 
and  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  pray.  Then  the 
hermit  told  him  to  take  up  his  abode  on  the  banks 
of  a  dangerous  mountain  torrent,  where  travellers 
were  often  drowned  in  crossing,  and  to  rescue  any 
that  might  be  in  peril.    The  giant  obeyed,  and  tear- 


A    TALE  351 

ing  up  a  palm-tree  by  the  roots  for  a  staff,  lie  took 
his  station  by  the  river's  side,  and  saved  many 
lives.  And  the  Lord  looked  down  from  heaven 
and  said,  "  Behold  this  strong  man,  who  knows  not 
yet  the  way  to  worship,  but  has  found  the  way  to 
serve  me !  "  And  one  night  he  heard  the  voice  of 
a  child,  crying  in  the  darkness  and  saying,  "  Chris- 
topher !  come  and  bear  me  over  the  river !  "  And 
he  went  out,  and  found  the  child  sitting  alone  on 
the  margin  of  the  stream ;  and  taking  him  upon 
his  shoulders,  he  waded  into  tlie  water.  Then  the 
wind  began  to  roar,  and  the  waves  to  rise  higher 
and  higher  about  him,  and  his  little  burden,  which 
at  first  had  seemed  so  light,  grew  heavier  and 
heavier  as  he  advanced,  and  bent  his  huge  shoul- 
ders down,  and  put  his  life  in  perU ;  so  that,  when 
he  reached  the  shore,  he  said,  "  Who  art  thou,  O 
child,  that  hast  weighed  upon  me  with  a  weight,  as 
if  I  had  borne  the  whole  world  upon  my  shoul- 
ders ?  "  And  the  little  child  answered,  "  Thou 
hast  borne  the  whole  world  upon  thy  shoulders, 
and  Him  who  created  it.  I  am  Christ,  whom 
thou  by  thy  deeds  of  charity  wouldst  serve.  Thou 
and  thy  service  are  accepted.  Plant  thy  staff 
in  the  ground,  and  it  shall  blossom  and  bear 
fruit !  "  With  these  words,  the  child  vanished 
away» 

There  was  something  in  this  beautiful  legend 
that  entirely  captivated  the  heart  of  the  boy,  and 
a  vague  sense  of  its  hidden  meaning  seemed  at 
times  to  seize  him  and  control  him.  Later  in  life 
it  became  more  and  more  evident  to  him,  and  re- 
mained forever  in  his  mind  as  a  lovely  allegory  of 


^y 


352  KA  VAN  A  Gil 

active  charity  and  a  williu^ess  to  serve.  Like  the 
giant's  staff,  it  blossomed  and  bore  fruit. 

But  the  time  at  length  came,  when  his  father  de- 
creetl  that  he  must  be  sent  away  to  school.  It  vras 
not  meet  that  his  son  should  be  educated  as  a  girl. 
He  must  go  to  the  Jesuit  college  in  Canada.  Ac- 
cordingly, one  bright  summer  morning,  he  de- 
parted with  his  father,  on  horseback,  through  those 
majestic  forests  that  stretch  with  almost  unbroken 
shadows  from  the  sea  to  the  St.  Lawrence,  leaving 
behind  him  all  the  endearments  of  home,  and  a 
wound  in  his  uiother's  heart  that  never  ceased  to 
ache,  —  a  longing,  unsatisfied  and  insatiable,  for 
her  absent  Arthur,  who  had  gone  from  her  per- 
haps forever. 

At  college  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  zeal 
for  study,  by  the  docilit}^,  gentleness,  and  gen- 
erosity of  Ills  nature.  There  he  was  thoroughly 
trained  in  the  classics,  and  in  the  dogmas  of  that 
laugust  faith,  whose  turrets  gleam  with  such  crys- 
talline light,  and  whose  dungeons  are  so  deep,  and 
dark,  and  terrible.  The  study  of  philosophy  and 
theology  was  congenial  to  his  mind.  Indeed,  he 
often  laid  aside  Homer  for  Parmenides,  and  turned 
from  the  odes  of  Pindar  and  Horace  to  the  mystic 
hymns  of  Cleanthes  and  Synesius. 

The  uniformity  of  college  life  was  broken  only 
by  the  annual  visit  home  in  the  summer  vacation  ; 
the  joyous  meeting,  the  bitter  parting ;  the  long 
journey  to  and  fro  through  the  grand,  solitary, 
mysterious  forest.  To  his  mother  these  visits  were 
even  more  precious  than  to  himself ;  for  ever  more 
and  more  they  added  to  her  boundless  affectiou 


A    TALE  863 

the  feeling  of  pride  and  confidence  and  satisfac- 
tion, —  the  joy  and  beauty  of  a  youth  unspotted 
from  the  workl,  and  glowing  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  virtue. 

At  length  his  college  days  were  ended.  He  re- 
turned home  full  of  youth,  full  of  joy  and  hope ; 
but  it  was  only  to  receive  the  dying  blessings  of 
his  mother,  who  expired  in  peace,  having  seen  his 
face  once  more.  Then  the  house  became  empty  to 
him.  Solitary  was  the  sea-shore,  solitary  were  the 
woodland  walks.  But  the  sjiiritual  world  seemed 
nearer  and  more  real.  For  affairs  he  had  no  apti- 
tude ;  and  he  betook  himself  again  to  his  philo- 
sophic and  theological  studies.  He  pondered  with 
fond  enthusiasm  on  the  rapturous  pages  of  Moli- 
nos  and  Madame  Guyon ;  and  in  a  spirit  akin  to 
that  which  wrote,  he  read  the  writings  of  Santa 
Theresa,  which  he  found  among  his  mother's  books, 
—  the  Meditations,  the  Road  to  Perfection,  and 
the  Moradas,  or  Castle  of  the  Soul.  She,  too,  had 
lingered  over  those  pages  with  delight,  and  there 
were  many  passages  marked  by  her  own  hand. 
Among  them  was  this,  which  he  often  repeated  to 
himself  in  his  lonely  walks :  "  O  Life,  Life !  how 
canst  thou  sustain  thyself,  being  absent  from  thy 
Life  ?  In  so  great  a  solitude,  in  what  shalt  thou 
employ  thyself?  What  shalt  thou  do,  since  all 
thy  deeds  are  faulty  and  imperfect  ?  " 

In  such  meditations  passed  many  weeks  and 
months.  But  mingled  with  them,  continually  and 
ever  with  more  distinctness,  arose  in  his  memory 
from  the  days  of  childhood  the  old  tradition  of 
Bt.  Christopher,  —  the    beautiful   allegory  of  hu- 


354  KAVANAGH 

mility  and  labor.  lie  and  his  service  had  been 
accepted,  though  he  woukl  not  fast,  and  had  not 
learned  to  pray !  It  became  more  and  more  clear 
to  him,  that  the  life  of  man  consists  not  in  seeing 
visions,  and  in  dreaming  dreams,  but  in  active 
charity  and  willing  service. 

Moreover,  the  study  of  ecclesiastical  history 
awoke  within  him  many  strange  and  dubious 
thoughts.  The  books  tauji^ht  him  more  than  their 
writers  meant  to  teach.  It  was  impossible  to  read 
of  Athanasius  without  reading  also  of  Arius  ;  it 
was  impossible  to  hear  of  Calvin  without  hearing 
of  Servetus.  Reason  began  more  energetically  to 
vindicate  itself ;  that  Reason,  which  is  a  light  in 
darkness,  not  that  which  is  "  a  thorn  in  Revela- 
tion's side."  The  search  after  Truth  and  Freedom, 
both  intellectual  and  spiritual,  became  a  passion  in 
his  soul,  and  he  pursued  it  until  he  had  left  far 
behind  him  manj^  dusky  dogmas,  many  antique  su- 
perstitions, many  time-honored  observances,  which 
the  lips  of  her  alone,  who  first  taught  them  to  him 
in  his  childhood,  had  invested  \vith  solemnity  and 
sanctity. 

By  slow  degrees,  and  not  by  violent  spiritual 
conflicts,  he  became  a  Protestant.  He  had  but 
passed  from  one  chapel  to  another  in  the  same  vast 
cathedral.  He  was  still  beneath  the  same  ample 
roof,  still  heard  the  same  divine  service  chanted  in 
a  different  dialect  of  the  same  universal  language. 
Out  of  his  old  faith  he  brought  with  him  all  he 
had  found  in  it  that  was  holy  and  pure  and  of 
good  report.  Not  its  bigotry,  and  fanaticism, 
and  intolerance ;  but  its  zeal,  its  self-devotion,  its 


A    TALE  355 

heavenly  aspirations,  its  human  sympathies,  its 
endless  deeds  of  charity.  Not  till  after  his  fa- 
ther's death,  however,  did  he  become  a  clergyman. 
Then  his  vocation  was  manifest  to  him.  lie  no 
longer  hesitated,  but  entered  ujDon  its  many  duties 
and  responsibilities,  its  many  trials  and  discour- 
agements, with  the  zeal  of  Peter  and  the  gentle- 
ness of  John. 

XIX. 

A  week  later,  and  Kavanagh  was  installed  in 
his  little  room  in  the  church-tower.  A  week  later, 
and  the  carrier-pigeon  was  on  the  wing.  A  week 
later,  and  Martha  Amelia's  anonymous  epistolary 
eulogies  of  her  relative  had  ceased  forever. 

Swiftly  and  silently  the  summer  advanced,  and 
the  following  announcement  in  the  Fairmeadow 
.Advertiser  proclaimed  the  hot  weather  and  its  al- 
leviations :  — 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing  to  the  La- 
dies and  Gentlemen  of  Fairmeadow  and  its  vicin- 
ity, that  my  Bath  House  is  now  completed,  and 
ready  for  the  reception  of  those  who  are  disposed 
to  regale  themselves  in  a  luxury  peculiar  to  the 
once  polished  Greek  and  noble  Roman. 

"  To  the  Ladies  I  wiU  say,  that  Tuesday  of  each 
week  wiU  be  appropriated  to  their  exclusive  ben- 
efit ;  the  white  flag  will  be  the  signal ;  and  I  as- 
sure the  Ladies,  that  due  respect  shall  be  scrupu- 
lously observed,  and  that  they  shall  be  guarded 
from  each  vagTant  foot  and  each  licentious  eye. 

"Edward  Dbiple." 


356  KAVANAGH 

Moreover,  the  village  was  enlivened  by  the  usual 
travelling"  shows,  —  the  wax- work  figures  repre- 
senting Eliza  Wharton  and  the  Salem  Tragedy,  to 
which  clergymen  and  their  families  were  "  respect- 
fully invited,  free  on  presenting  their  cards  " ;  a 
stuffed  shark,  that  had  eaten  the  exhibitor's  father 
in  Lynn  Bay  ;  the  menagerie,  with  its  loud  music 
and  its  roars  of  rage ;  the  circus,  with  its  tan  and 
tinsel,  —  its  faded  Columbine  and  melancholy 
Clown ;  and,  finally,  the  standard  drama,  in  which 
Elder  Evans,  like  an  ancient  Spanish  Bululii,  im- 
personated all  the  principal  male  characters,  and 
was  particularly  imposing  in  lago  and  the  Moor, 
having  half  his  face  lamp-blacked,  and  turning 
now  the  luminous,  now  the  eclipsed  side  to  the  au- 
dience, as  the  exigencies  of  the  dialogue  demanded. 

There  was  also  a  great  Temjaerance  Jubilee, 
with  a  procession,  in  which  was  conspicuous  a 
large  horse,  whose  shaven  tail  was  adorned  with 
gay  ribbons,  and  whose  rider  bore  a  banner  with 
the  device,  "  Shaved  in  the  Cause  !  "  Moreover, 
the  Grand  Junction  Railroad  was  opened  through 
the  town,  running  in  one  direction  to  the  city,  and 
in  the  other  into  unknown  northern  regions, 
stringing  the  white  villages  like  pearls  upon  its 
black  thread.  By  this,  the  town  lost  much  of  its 
rural  quiet  and  seclusion.  The  inhabitants  be- 
came restless  and  ambitious.  They  were  in  con- 
stant excitement  and  alarm,  like  children  in  story- 
books hidden  away  somewhere  by  an  ogre,  who 
visits  them  regularly  every  day  and  night,  and  oc- 
casionally devours  one  of  them  for  a  meal. 

Nevertheless,  most  of  the  inhabitants  considered 


A    TALE  357 

the  railroad  a  great  advantage  to  the  village. 
Several  ladies  were  heard  to  say  that  Fairmeadow 
had  grown  quite  metropolitan ;  and  Mrs.  Wilmer- 
dings,  who  suffered  under  a  chronic  suspension  of 
the  mental  faculties,  had  a  vague  notion,  probably- 
connected  with  the  profession  of  her  son,  that  it 
was  soon  to  become  a  seaport. 

In  the  fields  and  woods,  meanwhile,  there  were 
other  signs  and  signals  of  the  summer.  The  dark- 
ening foliage  ;  the  embrowning  grain  ;  the  golden 
dragon-fly  haunting  the  blackberry-bushes ;  the 
cawing  crows,  that  looked  down  from  the  moun- 
tain on  the  cornfield,  and  waited  day  after  day  for 
the  scarecrow  to  finish  his  work  and  depart ;  and 
the  smoke  of  far-oif  burning  woods,  that  pervaded 
the  air  and  hung  in  purple  haze  about  the  summits 
of  the  mountains,  —  these  were  the  vaunt-couriers 
and  attendants  of  the  hot  August. 

Kavanagh  had  now  completed  the  first  great 
cycle  of  parochial  visits.  He  had  seen  the  Vaugh- 
ans,  the  Archers,  the  Churchills,  and  also  the 
Hawkinses  and  the  Wilmerdingses,  and  many 
more.  With  Mr.  Churchill  he  had  become  inti- 
mate. They  had  many  points  of  contact  and  sym- 
pathy. They  walked  together  on  leisure  after- 
noons ;  they  sat  together  through  long  summer 
evenings  ;  they  discoursed  with  friendly  zeal  on 
various  topics  of  literature,  religion,  and  morals. 

Moreover,  he  worked  assiduously  at  his  sermons. 
He  preached  the  doctrines  of  Christ.  He  preached 
holiness,  self-denial,  love  ;  and  his  hearers  remarked 
that  he  almost  invariably  took  his  texts  from  the 
Evangelists,  as  much  as  possible  from  the  words  of 


i/ 


358  KAVANAGH 

Christ,  and  seldom  from  Paul,  or  the  Old  Testa- 
ment. He  did  not  so  much  denounce  vice,  as  in- 
culcate virtue ;  he  did  not  deny,  but  affirm  ;  he  did 
not  lacerate  the  hearts  of  his  hearers  with  doubt 
and  disbelief,  but  consoled,  and  comforted,  and 
healed  them  with  faith. 
l_  The  only  danger  was  that  he  might  advance  too 
far,  and  leave  his  congregation  behind  him ;  as  a 
piping  shepherd,  who,  charmed  with  his  own  music, 
walks  over  the  flowery  mead,  not  perceiving  that 
his  tardy  flock  is  lingering  far  behind,  more  intent 
upon  cropping  the  thymy  food  around  them,  than 
upon  listening  to  the  celestial  harmonies  that  are 
gradually  dying  away  in  the  distance. 

His  words  were  always  kindly ;  he  brought  no 
railing  accusation  against  any  man ;  he  dealt  in 
no  exaggerations  nor  over-statements.  But  while 
he  was  gentle,  he  was  firm.  He  did  not  refrain 
from  reprobating  intemperance  because  one  of  his 
deacons  owned  a  distillery ;  nor  war,  because  an- 
other had  a  contract  for  supplying  the  army  with 
muskets ;  nor  slavery,  because  one  of  the  great 
men  of  the  village  slammed  his  pew-door,  and  left 
the  church  with  a  grand  air,  as  much  as  to  say, 
that  all  that  sort  of  thing  would  not  do,  and  the 
clergy  had  better  confine  themselves  to  abusing 
the  sins  of  the  Hindoos,  and  let  our  domestic  in- 
stitutions alone. 

In  affairs  ecclesiastical  he  had  not  suggested 
many  changes.  One  that  he  had  much  at  heart 
was,  that  the  partition  wall  between  parish  and 
church  should  be  quietly  taken  down,  so  that  all 
should  sit  together  at  the  Supper  of  the  Lord.     He 


A    TALE  359 

also  desired  that  the  organist  should  relinquish 
the  old  and  pernicious  habit  of  preluding  with  tri- 
umphal marches,  and  running  his  fingers  at  random 
over  the  keys  of  his  instrument,  playing  scraps  of 
secular  music  very  slowly  to  make  them  sacred, 
and  substitute  instead  some  of  the  beautiful  sym-  , 
phonies  of  Pergolesi,  Palestrina,  and  Sebastian  j 
Bach. 

He  held  that  sacred  melodies  were  becoming  to 
sacred  themes ;  and  did  not  wish,  that,  in  his 
church,  as  in  some  of  the  French  Canadian 
churches,  the  holy  profession  of  religion  should  be 
sune:  to  the  air  of  "  When  one  is  dead  't  is  for  a 
long  time,"  —  the  commandments,  aspirations  for 
heaven,  and  the  necessity  of  thinking  of  one's  sal- 
vation, to  "  The  Follies  of  Spain,"  "  Louisa  was 
sleeping  in  a  grove,"  or  a  grand  "  March  of  the 
French  Cavalry." 

The  study  in  the  tower  was  delightful.  There 
sat  the  young  apostle,  and  meditated  the  great  de- 
sign and  purpose  of  his  life,  the  removal  of  all 
prejudice,  and  uncharitableness,  and  persecution, 
and  the  union  of  all  sects  into  one  church  univer- 
sal. Sects  themselves  he  woidd  not  destroy,  but  \  /»_ 
sectarianism  ;  for  sects  were  to  him  only  as  sepa-  -' 
rate  converging  roads,  leading  all  to  the  same  ce- 
lestial city  of  peace.  As  he  sat  alone,  and  thought 
of  these  things,  he  heard  the  great  bell  boom  above 
him,  and  remembered  the  ages  when  in  all  Chris- 
tendom there  was  but  one  Church  ;  when  bells 
were  anointed,  baptized,  and  prayed  for,  that, 
wheresoever  those  holy  bells  should  sound,  all  de- 
ceits of  Satan,  all  danger  of  whirlwinds,  thunders, 


360  KAVANAGII 

Hglitnlngs,  and  tempests  might  be  driven  away,  — ■ 
that  devotion  might  increase  in  every  Christian 
when  he  heard  them,  —  and  that  the  Lord  would 
sanctify  them  with  his  Holy  Spirit,  and  infuse  into 
them  the  heavenly  dew  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  He 
thought  of  the  great  bell  Guthlac,  which  an  abbot 
of  Croyland  gave  to  his  monastery,  and  of  the  six 
others  given  by  his  successor,  —  so  musical,  that, 
when  they  all  rang  together,  as  Ingulphus  affirms, 
there  was  no  ringing  in  England  equal  to  it.  As 
he  listened,  the  bell  seemed  to  breathe  upon  the  air 
such  clangorous  sentences  as, 

Laudo  Deum  verum,  plebem  voco,  congrego  clerum, 
Defuiietos  ploro,  nimbum  fugo,  festaque  honoro. 

Possibly,  also,  at  times,  it  interrupted  his  studies 
and  meditations  with  other  words  than  these. 
Possibly  it  sang  into  his  ears,  as  did  the  bells  of 
Varennes  into  the  ears  of  Panurge,  —  "  Marry 
thee,  marry  thee,  marry,  marry  ;  if  thou  shouldst 
marry,  marry,  marry,  thou  shalt  find  good  therein, 
therein,  therein,  so  marry,  marry." 

From  this  tower  of  contemplation  he  looked 
down  with  mingled  emotions  of  joy  and  sorrow  on 
the  toiling  world  below.  The  wide  prospect  seemed 
to  enlarge  his  sympathies  and  his  charities,  and 
he  often  thought  of  the  words  of  Plato  :  "  When 
we  consider  human  life,  we  should  view  as  from  a 
high  tower  all  things  terrestrial ;  such  as  herds, 
armies,  men  employed  in  agriculture,  in  marriages, 
divorces,  births,  deaths ;  the  tumults  of  courts  of 
justice  ;  desolate  lands ;  various  barbarous  nations  ; 
feasts,  wailings,  markets ;  a  medley  of  all  things, 
in  a  system  adorned  by  contrarieties." 


A    TALE  361 

On  the  outside  of  the  door  Kavanagh  had  writ- 
ten the  vigorous  line  of  Dante, 

Think  that  To-day  will  never  dawn  again ! 

that  it  might  always  serve  as  a  salutation  and 
memento  to  him  as  he  entered.  On  the  inside, 
the  no  less  striking  lines  of  a  more  modern  bard,  — - 

Lose  this  day  loitering,  't  wUl  be  the  same  story 
To-morrow,  and  the  next  more  dilatory  ; 
For  indecision  brings  its  own  delays, 
And  days  are  lost,  lamenting  o'er  lost  days. 
Are  you  in  earnest  ?     Seize  tliis  very  minute  ! 
What  you  can  do  or  think  you  can,  begin  it ! 
Boldness  has  genius,  power,  and  magic  in  it ! 
Only  engage,  and  then  the  mind  grows  heated  : 
Begin  it,  and  the  work  will  be  completed. 

Once,  as  he  sat  in  this  retreat  near  noon,  enjoy- 
ing the  silence,  and  the  fresh  air  that  visited  him 
through  the  oval  windows,  his  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  a  cloud  of  dust,  rolling  along  the  road, 
out  of  which  soon  emerged  a  white  horse,  and  then 
a  very  singular,  round-shouldered,  old-fashioned 
chaise,  containing  an  elderly  couple,  both  in  black. 
What  particularly  struck  him  was  the  gait  of  the 
horse,  who  had  a  very  disdainful  fling  to  his  hind 
legs.  The  slow  equipage  passed,  and  would  have 
been  forever  forgotten,  had  not  Kavanagh  seen  it 
again  at  sunset,  stationary  at  Mr.  Churchill's  door, 
towards  which  he  was  directing  his  steps. 

As  he  entered,  he  met  Mr.  Churchill,  just  taking 
leave  of  an  elderly  lady  and  gentleman  in  black, 
whom  he  recognized  as  the  travellers  in  the  old 
chaise.  Mr.  Churchill  looked  a  little  flushed  and 
disturbed,  and  bade  his  guests  farewell  with  a  con- 
strained air.     On   seeing  Kavanagh,   he   saluted 


362  KAVANAGH 

him,  and  called  him  by  name  ;  whereupon  the  lady 
pursed  uj)  her  mouth,  and,  after  a  quick  glance, 
turned  away  her  face  ;  and  the  gentleman  passed 
with  a  lofty  look,  in  which  curiosity,  reproof,  and 
pious  indignation  were  strangely  mingled.  They 
got  into  the  chaise,  with  some  such  feelings  as 
Noah  and  his  wife  may  be  supposed  to  have  had 
on  entering  the  ark  ;  the  whip  descended  upon  the 
old  horse  with  unusual  vigor,  accompanied  by  a 
jerk  of  the  reins  that  caused  him  to  say  within 
himself,  "  What  is  the  matter  now  ?  "  He  then 
moved  off  at  his  usual  pace,  and  with  that  peculiar 
motion  of  the  hind  legs  which  Kavanagh  had  per- 
ceived in  the  morning. 

Kavanagh  found  his  friend  not  a  little  disturbed, 
and  evidently  by  the  conversation  of  the  departed 
guests. 

"  That  old  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Churchill,  "  is 
your  predecessor,  Mr.  Pendexter.  He  thinks  we 
are  in  a  bad  way  since  he  left  us.  He  considers 
your  liberality  as  nothing  better  than  rank  Arian- 
ism  and  infidelity.  The  fact  is,  the  old  gentleman 
is  a  little  soured  ;  the  vinous  fermentation  in 
his  veins  is  now  over,  and  the  acetous  has  com- 
menced." 

Kavanagh  smiled,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  I,  of  course,  defended  you  stoutly,"  continued 
Mr.  Churchill ;  "  but  if  he  goes  about  the  village 
sowing  such  seed,  there  will  be  tares  growing  with 
the  wheat." 

"  I  have  no  fears,"  said  Kavanagh,  very  quietly. 

Mr.  Churchill's  apprehensions  were  not,  how- 
ever, gTOundless  ;  for  in  the  course  of  the  week  it 


A    TALE  363 

came  out  that  doubts,  surmises,  and  suspicions  of 
Kavanagh's  orthodoxy  were  sj^ringing  up  in  many- 
weak  but  worthy  minds.  And  it  was  ever  after 
observed,  that,  whenever  that  fatal,  apocalyptic 
white  horse  and  antediluvian  chaise  appeared  in 
town,  many  parishioners  were  harassed  with  doubts 
and  perplexed  with  theological  difficulties  and  un- 
certainties. 

Nevertheless,  the  main  current  of  opinion  was 
with  him ;  and  the  parish  showed  their  grateful 
acknowledgment  of  his  zeal  and  sympathy,  by  re- 
questing him  to  sit  for  his  portrait  to  a  great  artist 
from  the  city,  who  was  passing  the  summer  months 
in  the  village  for  recreation,  using  his  pencil  only 
on  rarest  occasions  and  as  a  particular  favor.  To 
this  martyrdom  the  meek  Kavanagh  submitted 
without  a  murmur.  During  the  progress  of  this 
work  of  art,  he  was  seldom  left  alone  ;  some  one 
of  his  parishioners  was  there  to  enliven  him  ;  and 
most  frequently  it  was  Miss  Martha  Amelia  Haw^ 
kins,  who  had  become  very  devout  of  late,  being 
zealous  in  the  Sunday  School,  and  requesting  her 
relative  not  to  walk  between  churches  any  more. 
She  took  a  very  lively  interest  in  the  portrait,  and 
favored  with  many  suggestions  the  distinguished 
artist,  who  found  it  difficult  to  obtain  an  expression 
which  would  satisfy  the  parish,  some  wishing  to 
have  it  grave,  if  not  severe,  and  others  with  "  Mr. 
Kavanagh's  peculiar  smile."  Kavanagh  himself 
was  quite  indifferent  about  the  matter,  and  met 
his  fate  with  Christian  fortitude,  in  a  white  cravat 
and  sacerdotal  robes,  with  one  hand  hanging  down 
from  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  the  other  holding 


364  HAVANA  Gil 

a  large  book  with  the  fore-finger  between  its  leaves, 
reminding  Mr.  Churchill  of  Milo  with  his  fingers 
in  the  oak.  The  expression  of  tho  face  was  exceed- 
ingly bland  and  resigned  ;  perhaps  a  little  wanting 
in  strength,  biit  on  the  whole  satisfactory  to  the 
parish.  So  was  the  artist's  price  ;  nay,  it  was  even 
held  by  some  persons  to  be  cheap,  considering  the 
quantity  of  background  he  had  put  in. 

XX. 

Meanwhile,  things  had  gone  on  very  quietly  and 
monotonously  in  Mr.  Churchill's  family.  Only  one 
event,  and  that  a  mysterious  one,  had  disturbed 
its  serenity.  It  was  the  sudden  disappearance  of 
Lucy,  the  pretty  orphan  girl ;  and,  as  the  booted 
centipede,  who  had  so  much  excited  Mr.  Church- 
ill's curiosity,  disappeared  at  the  same  time,  there 
was  little  doubt  that  they  had  gone  away  together. 
But  whither  gone,  and  wherefore,  remained  a  mys- 
tery. 

Mr.  Churchill,  also,  had  had  his  profile,  and 
those  of  his  wife  and  children,  taken,  in  a  very 
humble  style,  by  Mr.  Bantam,  whose  advertisement 
he  had  noticed  on  his  way  to  school  nearly  a  year 
before.  His  own  was  considered  the  best,  as  a 
work  of  art.  The  face  was  cut  out  entirely ;  the 
collar  of  the  coat  velvet ;  the  shirt-collar  very  high 
and  white ;  and  the  top  of  his  head  ornamented 
with  a  crest  of  hair  turning  up  in  front,  though 
his  own  turned  down,  —  which  slight  deviation 
from  nature  was  explained  and  justified  by  the 
painter  as  a  license  allowable  in  art. 


A    TALE  365 

One  evening,  as  he  was  sitting  down  to  begin, 
for  at  least  the  hundredth  time,  the  great  Romance, 

—  subject  of  so  many  resolves  and  so  much  re- 
morse, so  often  determined  upon  but  never  begun, 

—  a  loud  knock  at  the  street-door,  which  stood 
wide  open,  announced  a  visitor.  Unluckily,  the 
study-door  was  likewise  open  ;  and  consequently, 
being  in  full  view,  he  found  it  impossible  to  refuse 
himself  ;  nor,  in  fact,  would  he  have  done  so,  had 
all  the  doors  been  shut  and  bolted,  —  the  art  of 
refusing  one's  self  being  at  that  time  but  imper- 
fectly understood  in  Fairmeadow.  Accordingly, 
the  visitor  was  shown  in. 

He  announced  himself  as  Mr.  Hathaway.  Pass- 
ing through  the  village,  he  could  not  deny  himself 
the  pleasure  of  calling  on  Mr.  Churchill,  whom  he 
knew  by  his  writings  in  the  periodicals,  though  not 
personally.  He  wished,  moreover,  to  secure  the 
cooperation  of  one,  already  so  favorably  known  to 
the  literary  world,  in  a  new  Magazine  he  was  about 
to  establish,  in  order  to  raise  the  character  of 
American  literature,  which,  in  his  opinion,  the  ex- 
isting reviews  and  magazines  had  entirely  failed  to 
accomplish.  A  daily  increasing  want  of  some- 
thing better  was  felt  by  the  public,  and  the  time 
had  come  for  the  establishment  of  such  a  periodical 
as  he  proposed.  After  explaining,  in  rather  a 
florid  and  exuberant  manner,  his  plan  and  pros- 
pects, he  entered  more  at  large  into  the  subject  of 
American  literature,  which  it  was  his  design  to 
foster  and  patronize. 

"I  think,  Mr.  Churchill,"  said  he,  "that  we 
want  a  national  literature  commensurate  with  our 


366  KAVANAGH 

mountains  and  rivers,  —  commensurate  with  Niag- 
ara, and  the  Alleghanies,  and  the  Great  Lakes!  " 

"  Oh  !  " 

"  We  want  a  national  epic  that  shall  corre- 
spond to  the  size  of  the  country ;  that  shall  be  to 
all  other  epics  what  Banvard's  Panorama  of  the 
jNlississippi  is  to  all  other  paintings,  —  the  largest 
in  the  world  I  " 

"  Ah !  " 

"  We  want  a  national  drama  in  which  scope 
enough  shall  be  given  to  our  gigantic  ideas,  and 
to  the  unparalleled  activity  and  progress  of  our 
people  ! " 

"  Of  course." 

*'  In  a  word,  we  want  a  national  literature  alto- 
gether shaggy  and  unshorn,  that  shall  shake  the 
earth,  like  a  herd  of  buffaloes  thundering  over  the 
prairies !  " 

"  Precisely,"  interrupted  Mr.  Churchill ;  "  but 
excuse  me  !  —  are  you  not  confounding  things  that 
have  no  analogy  ?  Great  has  a  very  different 
meaning  when  applied  to  a  river,  and  when  applied 
to  a  literature.  Large  and  shallow  may  perhaps 
be  applied  to  both.  Literature  is  rather  an  image 
of  the  spiritual  world,  than  of  the  physical,  is  it 
not  ?  —  of  the  internal,  rather  than  the  external. 
Mountains,  lakes,  and  rivers  are,  after  all,  only  its 
scenery  and  decorations,  not  its  substance  and  es- 
sence. A  man  will  not  necessarily  be  a  great  poet 
because  he  lives  near  a  great  mountain.  Nor,  be- 
ing a  poet,  will  he  necessarily  write  better  poems 
than  another,  because  he  lives  nearer  Niagara." 

"  But,  ]SIr.  Churchill,  you  do  not  certainly  mean 
to  deny  the  influence  of  scenery  on  the  mind  ?  " 


A    TALE  367 

"  No,  only  to  deny  that  it  can  create  genius.  At 
best,  it  can  only  develop  it.  Switzerland  has  prO' 
duced  no  extraordinary  poet ;  nor,  as  far  as  I  know, 
have  the  Andes,  or  the  Himalaya  mountains,  or  the 
Mountains  of  the  Moon  in  Africa." 

"  But,  at  all  events,"  urged  Mr.  Hathaway,  "  let 
BS  have  our  literature  national.  If  it  is  not  na- 
tional, it  is  nothing." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  may  be  a  great  deal.  Na- 
tionality is  a  good  thing  to  a  certain  extent,  but 
universality  is  better.  All  that  is  best  in  the  great 
poets  of  all  countries  is  not  what  is  national  in 
them,  but  what  is  universal.  Their  roots  are  in 
their  native  soil ;  but  their  branches  wave  in  the 
unpatriotic  air,  that  speaks  the  same  language  unto 
all  men,  and  their  leaves  shine  with  the  illimi- 
table light  that  pervades  all  lands.  Let  us  throw 
all  the  windows  open  ;  let  us  admit  the  light  and 
air  on  all  sides  ;  that  we  may  look  towards  the  four 
corners  of  the  heavens,  and  not  always  in  the  same 
direction." 

"  But  you  admit  nationality  to  be  a  good 
thing  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  not  carried  too  far  ;  still,  I  confess, 
it  rather  limits  one's  views  of  truth.  I  prefer 
what  is  natural.  Mere  nationality  is  often  ridic- 
talous.  Every  one  smiles  when  he  hears  the  Ice- 
landic proverb,  '  Iceland  is  the  best  land  the  sun 
shines  upon.'  Let  us  be  natural,  and  we  shall  be 
national  enough.  Besides,  our  literature  can  be 
strictly  national  only  so  far  as  our  character  and 
modes  of  thought  differ  from  those  of  other  na- 
tions.    Now,  as  we  are  very  like  the  English,  — ' 


V 


368  KAVANAGIl 

are,  in  fact,  English  under  a  different  sky,  —  I  do 
not  see  how  our  literature  can  be  very  different 
from  theirs.  Westward  from  hand  to  hand  we 
pass  the  lighted  torch,  but  it  was  lighted  at  the  old 
domestic  fireside  of  England." 

"  Then  you  think  our  literature  is  never  to  be 
anything  but  an  imitation  of  the  English  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  not  an  imitation,  but,  as  some 
one  has  said,  a  continuation." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  take  a  very  narrow 
view  of  the  subject." 

"  On  the  contrary,  a  very  broad  one.  No  litera- 
ture is  complete  until  the  language  in  which  it  is 
written  is  dead.  We  may  weU  be  proud  of  our 
task  and  of  our  position.  Let  us  see  if  we  can 
build  in  any  way  worthy  of  our  forefathers." 

"  But  I  insist  upon  originality." 

"  Yes  ;  but  without  spasms  and  convulsions. 
Authors  must  not,  like  Chinese  soldiers,  expect  to 
win  victories  by  turning  somersets  in  the  air." 

"  WeU,  really,  the  prospect  from  your  point  of 
view  is  not  very  brilliant.  Pray,  what  do  you  think 
of  our  national  literature  ?  " 

"  Simply,  that  a  national  literature  is  not  the 
growth  of  a  day.  Centuries  must  contribute  their 
dew  and  sunshine  to  it.  Our  own  is  growing 
slowly  but  surely,  striking  its  roots  downward,  and 
its  branches  upward,  as  is  natural ;  and  I  do  not 
wish,  for  the  sake  of  what  some  people  call  origi- 
nality, to  invert  it,  and  try  to  make  it  grow  with 
its  roots  in  the  air.  And  as  for  having  it  so 
savage  and  wild  as  you  want  it,  I  have  only  to  say, 
that  all  literature,  as  well  as  all  art,  is  the  result 
of  culture  and  intellectual  refinement." 


A    TALE  369 

•'  Ah !  we  do  not  want  art  and  refinement ;  we 
want  genius,  —  untutored,  wild,  original,  free." 

"  But,  if  this  genius  is  to  find  any  expression,  it 
must  employ  art,  for  art  is  the  external  expres- 
sion of  our  thoughts.  Many  have  genius,  but, 
wanting  art,  are  forever  dumb.  The  two  must 
go  together  to  form  the  great  poet,  painter,  or 
sculptor." 

"  In  that  sense,  very  well." 

"  I  was  about  to  say  also  that  I  thought  our 
literature  would  finally  not  be  wanting  in  a  kind 
of  universality.  As  the  blood  of  all  nations  is 
mingling  with  our  o^m,  so  will  their  thoughts  and 
feelings  finally  mingle  in  our  literature.  We  shall 
draw  from  the  Germans,  tenderness;  from  the 
Spaniards,  passion  ;  from  the  French,  vivacity,  — 
to  mingle  more  and  more  with  our  English  solid 
sense.  And  this  will  give  us  universality,  so  much 
to  be  desired." 

"  If  that  is  your  way  of  thinking,"  interrupted 
the  visitor,  "  you  will  like  the  work  I  am  now  en- 
gaged upon." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  A  great  national  drama,  the  scene  of  which  is  n^ 
laid  in  New  Mexico.  It  is  entitled  Don  Serafin, 
or  the  Marquis  of  the  Seven  Churches.  The  prin- 
cipal characters  are  Don  Serafin,  an  old  Spanish 
hidalgo,  his  daughter  Deseada,  and  Era  Serapion, 
the  Curate.  The  play  opens  with  Era  Serapion  at 
breakfast ;  on  the  table  a  game-cock,  tied  by  the 
lee:,  sharins:  his  master's  meal.  Then  follows  a 
scene  at  the  cockpit,  where  the  Marquis  stakes  the 
remnant  of  his  fortune  —  his  herds  and  hacienda 
—  on  a  favorite  cock,  and  loses." 


370  KA  VAN  A  Gil 

"  But  what  do  you  know  about  cock-fighting  ?  " 
denmncled,  rather  than  asked,  the  astonished  and 
half-laughing  schoolmaster. 

"  I  am  not  very  well  informed  on  that  subject, 
and  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  could  not  recom- 
mend some  work." 

"  The  only  work  I  am  acquainted  with,"  replied 
Mr.  Churchill,  "  is  the  Reverend  Mr.  Pegge's 
Essay  on  Cock-fighting  among  the  Ancients,  and 
I  hardly  see  how  you  could  apply  that  to  the 
Mexicans." 

"  Why,  they  are  a  kind  of  ancients,  you  know. 
I  certainly  will  hunt  up  the  essay  you  mention,  and 
see  what  I  can  do  with  it." 

"  And  all  I  know  about  the  matter  itself,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Churchill,  "  is,  that  Mark  Antony  was 
a  patron  of  the  pit,  and  that  his  cocks  were  always 
beaten  by  Caesar's ;  and  that,  when  Themistocles 
the  Athenian  general  was  marching  against  the 
Persians,  he  halted  his  army  to  see  a  cock-fight, 
and  made  a  speech  to  his  soldiery,  to  the  effect, 
that  those  animals  fought,  not  for  the  gods  of  their 
country,  nor  for  the  monuments  of  their  ancestors, 
nor  for  glory,  nor  for  freedom,  nor  for  their  chil- 
dren, but  only  for  the  sake  of  victory.  On  his 
return  to  Athens,  he  established  cock-fights  in  that 
capital.  But  how  this  is  to  help  you  in  Mexico  I 
do  not  see,  unless  you  introduce  Santa  Anna,  and 
compare  him  to  Caesar  and  Themistocles." 

"  That  is  it ;  I  will  do  so.  It  will  give  historic 
interest  to  the  play.  I  thank  you  for  the  sug- 
gestion." 

"  The  subject  is  certainly  very  original,  but  it 
does  not  strike  me  as  particularly  national." 


A    TALE  371 

"  Prospective,  you  see !  "  said  Mr.  Hathaway, 
with  a  penetrating  look, 

"  Ah,  yes ;  I  perceive  you  fish  with  a  heavy 
sinker,  —  down,  far  down  in  the  future,  —  among 
posterity,  as  it  were." 

"  You  have  seized  the  idea.  Besides,  I  obviate 
your  objection,  by  introducing  an  American  circus 
company  from  the  United  States,  which  enables 
me  to  bring  horses  on  the  stage  and  produce  great 
scenic  effect," 

"  That  is  a  bold  design.  The  critics  will  be  out 
upon  you  without  fail." 

"  Never  fear  that.  I  know  the  critics  root  and 
branch,  —  out  and  out,  —  have  summered  them, 
and  wintered  them,  —  in  fact,  am  one  of  them  my- 
self. Very  good  fellows  are  the  critics,  are  th^y 
not?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  only  they  have  such  a  pleasant  way 
of  talking  down  upon  authors," 

"  If  they  did  not  talk  down  upon  them,  they 
would  show  no  superiority  ;  and,  of  course,  that 
would  never  do." 

"  Nor  is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  that  authors  are 
sometimes  a  little  irritable.  I  often  recall  the 
poet  in  the  Spanish  fable,  whose  manuscripts  were 
devoured  by  mice,  till  at  length  he  put  some  cor- 
rosive sublimate  into  his  ink,  and  was  never  trou- 
bled again." 

"Why  don't  you  try  It  yourself?"  said  Mr. 
Hathaway,  rather  sharply. 

"  Oh,"  answered  Mr.  Churchill,  with  a  smile 
of  humility,  "  I  and  my  writings  are  too  insignifi- 
cant.    They  may  gnaw  and  welcome.     I  do   not 


372  KAVANAGH 

like  to  have  poison  about,  even  for  such  pur- 
poses." 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Churchill,"  said  the  visitor, 
adroitly  changing  the  subject,  "  do  you  know 
Honeywell?" 

"  No,  I  do  not.     Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Honeywell  the  poet,  I  mean." 

"  No,  I  never  even  heard  of  him.  There  are  so 
many  poets  nowadays  !  " 

"  That  is  very  strange  indeed !  Why,  I  con- 
sider Honeywell  one  of  the  finest  writers  in  the 
country,  —  quite  in  the  front  rank  of  American 
authors.  He  is  a  real  poet,  and  no  mistake.  Na- 
ture made  him  with  her  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up." 

"  What  has  he  published  ?  " 

"  He  has  not  published  anything  yet,  except  in 
the  newspapers.  But,  this  autumn,  he  is  going  to 
bring  out  a  volume  of  poems.  I  could  not  help 
having  my  joke  with  him  about  it.  I  told  him  he 
had  better  print  it  on  cartridge-paper." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Why,  to  make  it  go  off  better ;  don't  you 
understand  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  now  that  you  explain  it.    Very  good." 

"  Honeywell  is  going  to  write  for  the  Magazine  ; 
he  is  to  furnish  a  poem  for  every  number ;  and  as 
he  succeeds  equally  well  in  the  plaintive  and 
didactic  style  of  AVordsworth,  and  the  more  vehe- 
ment and  impassioned  style  of  Byron,  I  think  we 
shall  do  very  well." 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  to  call  the  new  Maga* 
zine  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Churchill. 

"  We  think  of  calling  it  The  Niagara." 


A    TALE  373 

"  Why,  that  is  the  name  of  our  fire-engine ! 
Why  not  call  it  the  Extinguisher  ?  " 

"  That  is  also  a  good  name ;  but  I  prefer  The 
Niagara,  as  more  national.  And  I  hojje,  Mr. 
Churchill,  you  will  let  us  count  upon  you.  We 
should  like  to  have  an  article  from  your  pen  for 
every  number." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  pay  your  contributors  ?  " 

"  Not  the  first  year,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  But 
after  that,  if  the  work  succeeds,  we  shall  j)ay 
handsomely.  And,  of  course,  it  will  succeed,  for 
we  mean  it  shall ;  and  we  never  say  fail.  There 
is  no  such  word  in  our  dictionary.  Before  the 
year  is  out,  we  mean  to  print  fifty  thousand  copies ; 
and  fifty  thousand  copies  will  give  us,  at  least,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  readers;  and,  with 
such  an  audience,  any  author  might  be  satisfied." 

He  had  touched  at  leng'th  the  risfht  strinsrs  in 
Mr.  Churchill's  bosom  ;  and  they  vibrated  to  the 
touch  with  pleasant  harmonies.  X/iterary  vanity  ! 
■^-  literary  ambition  !  The  editor  perceived  it  ; 
and  so  cunningly  did  he  play  upon  these  chords, 
that,  before  he  departed,  Mr.  Churchill  had  prom- 
ised to  write  for  him  a  series  of  papers  on  Ob- 
scure Martyrs,  —  a  kind  of  tragic  history  of  the 
unrecorded  and  life-long  sufferings  of  women, 
which  hitherto  had  found  no  historian,  save  now 
and  then  a  novelist. 

Notwithstanding  the  certainty  of  success,  —  not- 
withstanding the  fifty  thousand  subscribers  and  the 
one  himdred  and  fifty  thousand  readers,  —  the 
Magazine  never  went  into  operation.  Still  the 
dream   was    enough    to    occupy    Mr.   Churchill's 


374  KAVANAGII 

thoughts,  and  to  withdraw  them  entirely  from  his 
Koniance  for  many  weeks  together. 


XXI. 

Every  State,  and  almost  every  county,  of  New 
England,  has  its  Roaring  Brook,  —  a  mountain 
streamlet,  overhung  by  woods,  impeded  by  a  mill, 
encumbered  by  fallen  trees,  but  ever  racing,  rush- 
ing, roaring  down  through  gurgling  gullies,  and 
filling  the  forest  with  its  delicious  sound  and  fresh- 
ness ;  the  drinking-place  of  home-returning  herds  ; 
the  mysterious  haunt  of  squirrels  and  blue-jays  ; 
the  sylvan  retreat  of  school-girls,  who  frequent  it 
on  summer  holidays,  and  mingle  their  restless 
thoughts,  their  overflowing  fancies,  their  fair  im- 
aginings, with  its  restless,  exuberant,  and  rejoicing 
stream. 

Fairmeadow  had  no  Roaring  Brook.  As  its 
name  indicates,  it  was  too  level  a  land  for  that. 
But  the  neighboring  town  of  Westwood,  lying 
more  inland,  and  among  the  hills,  had  one  of  the 
fairest  and  fullest  of  all  the  brooks  that  roar.  It 
was  the  boast  of  the  neighborhood.  Not  to  have 
seen  it  was  to  have  seen  no  brook,  no  waterfall,  no 
mountain  ravine.  And,  consequently,  to  behold  it 
and  admire  was  Kavanagh  taken  by  Mr.  Churchill 
as  soon  as  the  summer  vacation  gave  leisure  and 
opportunity.  The  party  consisted  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Churchill,  and  Alfred,  in  a  one-horse  chaise ;  and 
Cecilia,  Alice,  and  Kavanagh,  in  a  carryall,  —  the 
fourth  seat  in  which  was  occupied  by  a  lai*ge  basket, 
containing  what  the  Squire  of  the  Grove,  in  Don 


A    TALE  375 

Quixote,  called  his  "  fiambreras,"  —  that  magnilo- 
quent Castilian  word  for  cold  collation.  Over  warm 
Tiplands,  smelling  of  clover  and  mint  ;  through 
cool  glades,  still  wet  with  the  rain  of  yesterday  ; 
along  the  river ;  across  the  rattling  and  tilting 
planks  of  wooden  bridges  ;  by  orchards ;  by  the 
gates  of  fields,  with  the  tall  mullen  growing  at  the 
bars  ;  by  stone  walls  overrun  with  privet  and  bar- 
berries ;  in  sun  and  heat,  in  shadow  and  coolness, 
—  forward  drove  the  happy  party  on  that  pleasant 
summer  morning. 

At  length  they  reached  the  Koaring  Brook. 
From  a  gorge  in  the  mountains,  through  a  long, 
winding  gallery  of  birch,  and  beech,  and  pine, 
leaped  the  bright,  brown  waters  of  the  jubilant 
streamlet ;  out  of  the  woods,  across  the  plain, 
under  the  rude  bridge  of  logs,  into  the  woods 
again,  —  a  day  between  two  nights.  With  it  went 
a  song  that  made  the  heart  sing  likewise  —  a  song 
of  joy,  and  exultation,  and  freedom ;  a  continuous 
and  unbroken  song  of  life,  and  pleasure,  and  per- 
petual youth.  Like  the  old  Icelandic  Scald,  the 
streamlet  seemed  to  say,  — 

"  I  am  possessed  of  songs  such  as  neither  the 
spouse  of  a  king,  or  any  son  of  man,  can  repeat ; 
one  of  them  is  called  the  Helper ;  it  will  help 
thee  at  thy  need,  in  sickness,  grief,  and  all  adver- 
sity." 

The  little  party  left  their  carriages  at  a  farm- 
house by  the  bridge,  and  followed  the  rough  road 
on  foot  along  the  brook ;  now  close  upon  it,  now 
shut  out  by  intervening  trees.  Mr.  Churchill, 
bearing  the  basket  on  his  arm,  walked  in  front 


376  KAVANAGH 

with  his  wife  and  Alfred.  Kavanagh  came  behind 
with  Cecilia  and  Alice.  The  music  of  the  brook 
silenced  all  conversation  ;  only  occasional  excla- 
mations of  delight  were  uttered,  —  the  irrepressi- 
ble applause  of  fresh  and  sensitive  natures,  in  a 
scene  so  lovely.  Presently,  turning  off  from  the 
road,  which  led  directly  to  the  mill,  and  was  rough 
with  the  tracks  of  heavy  wheels,  they  went  down 
to  the  margin  of  the  brook. 

"  How  indescribably  beautiful  this  brown  water 
is !  "  exclaimed  Kavanagh.  "It  is  like  wine,  or 
the  nectar  of  the  gods  of  Olympus  ;  as  if  the  fall- 
ing Hebe  had  poured  it  from  her  goblet." 

"  More  like  the  mead  or  metheglin  of  the  north- 
ern gods,"  said  Mr.  Churchill,  "spilled  from  the 
drinking-horns  of  Valhalla." 

But  all  the  ladies  thought  Kavanagh's  compari- 
son the  better  of  the  two,  and  in  fact  the  best  that 
could  be  made  ;  and  Mr.  Churchill  was  obliged  to 
retract  and  apologize  for  his  allusion  to  the  celestial 
ale-house  of  Odin. 

Erelong  they  were  forced  to  cross  the  brook, 
stepping  from  stone  to  stone,  over  the  little  rapids 
and  cascades.  All  crossed  lightly,  easily,  safely; 
even  "  the  sumpter  mide,"  as  Mr.  Churchill  called 
himself,  on  account  of  the  pannier.  Only  Cecilia 
lingered  behind,  as  if  afraid  to  cross.  Cecilia, 
who  had  crossed  at  that  same  place  a  himdred 
times  before,  —  Cecilia,  who  had  the  surest  foot, 
and  the  firmest  nerves,  of  all  the  village  maidens, 
—  she  now  stood  irresolute,  seized  with  a  sudden 
tremor  ;  blushing,  and  laughing  at  her  own  timid- 
ity, and  yet  unable  to  advance.     Kavanagh  saw 


A    TALE  377 

her  embarrassment  and  hastened  back  to  help  her. 
Her  hand  trembled  in  his  ;  she  thanked  him  with 
a  gentle  look  and  word.  His  whole  soul  was 
softened  within  him.  His  attitude,  his  counte- 
nance, his  voice,  were  alike  submissive  and  sub- 
dued. He  was  as  one  penetrated  with  tenderest 
emotions. 

It  is  difficult  to  know  at  what  moment  love  be- 
gins ;  it  is  less  difficult  to  know  that  it  has  begun. 
A  thousand  heralds  proclaim  it  to  the  listening 
air ;  a  thousand  ministers  and  messengers  betray 
it  to  the  eye.  Tone,  act,  attitude  and  look,  —  the 
signals  upon  the  countenance, — the  electric  tel- 
egraph of  touch  ;  all  these  betray  the  yielding  cit- 
adel before  the  word  itself  is  uttered,  which,  like 
the  key  surrendered,  opens  every  avenue  and  gate 
of  entrance,  and  makes  retreat  impossible ! 

The  day  passed  delightfully  with  all.  They  sat 
upon  the  stones  and  the  roots  of  trees,  Cecilia 
read,  from  a  volume  she  had  brought  with  her, 
poems  that  rhymed  with  the  running  water.  The 
others  listened  and  commented.  Little  Alfred 
waded  in  the  stream,  with  his  bare  white  feet,  and 
launched  boats  over  the  falls.  Noon  had  been 
fixed  upon  for  dining,  but  they  anticipated  it  by 
at  least  an  hour.  The  great  basket  was  opened ; 
endless  sandwiches  were  drawn  forth,  and  a  cold 
pastry,  as  large  as  that  of  the  Squire  of  the  Grove. 
During  the  repast,  Mr.  Churchill  slijjped  into  the 
brook,  while  in  tlie  act  of  handing  a  sandwich  to 
his  wife,  which  caused  unbounded  mirth ;  and 
Kavanagh  sat  down  on  a  mossy  trunk,  that  gave 
way  beneath  him,  and  ci-umbled  into  powder.  This, 
also,  was  received  with  great  merriment. 


378  KAVANAGH 

After  dinner,  they  ascended  the  brook  still 
farther,  —  indeed,  quite  to  the  mill,  which  was  not 
going.  It  had  been  stopped  in  the  midst  of  its 
work.  The  saw  still  held  its  hungry  teeth  fixed  in 
the  heart  of  a  pine.  Mr.  Churchill  took  occasion 
to  make  known  to  the  company  his  long  cherished 
purpose  of  writing  a  poem  called  "  The  Song  of 
the  Saw-Mill,"  and  enlarged  on  the  beautiful  asso- 
ciations of  flood  and  forest  connected  with  the 
theme.  He  delighted  himself  and  his  audience 
with  the  fine  fancies  he  meant  to  weave  into  his 
poem,  and  wondered  nobody  had  thought  of  the 
subject  before.  Kavanagh  said  it  had  been 
thought  of  before  ;  and  cited  Kerner's  little  poem, 
so  charmingly  translated  by  Bryant.  Mr.  Church- 
ill had  not  seen  it.  Kavanagh  looked  into  his 
pocket-book  for  it,  but  it  was  not  to  be  found  ; 
still  he  was  sure  that  there  was  such  a  poem.  Mr. 
Churchill  abandoned  his  design.  He  had  spoken, 
—  and  the  treasure,  just  as  he  had  touched  it  with 
his  hand,  was  gone  forever. 

The  party  returned  home  as  it  came,  all  tired 
and  happy,  excepting  little  Alfred,  who  was  tired 
and  cross,  and  sat  sleepy  and  sagging  on  his  fa- 
ther's knee,  with  his  hat  cocked  rather  fiercely 
over  his  eyes. 

XXII. 

■\  The  brown  autumn  came.  Out  of  doors,  it 
brought  to  the  fields  the  prodigality  of  the  golden 
harvest,  —  to  the  forest,  revelations  of  light,  — 
and  to  the  sky,  the  sharp  air,  the  morning  mist, 


A    TALE  379 

the  red  clouds  at  evening.  Within  doors,  the 
sense  of  seclusion,  the  stillness  of  closed  and  cur- 
tained windows,  musings  by  the  fireside,  books, 
friends,  conversation,  and  the  long,  meditative 
evenings.  To  the  farmer,  it  brought  surcease  of 
toil,  —  to  the  scholar,  that  sweet  delirium  of  the 
brain  which  changes  toil  to  pleasure.  It  brought 
the  wild  duck  back  to  the  reedy  marshes  of  the 
south ;  it  brought  the  wild  song  back  to  the  fervid 
brain  of  the  poet.  Without,  the  village  street  was 
paved  with  gold ;  the  river  ran  red  with  the  re- 
flection of  the  leaves.  Within,  the  faces  of 
friends  brightened  the  gloomy  walls  ;  the  return- 
ing footsteps  of  the  long-absent  gladdened  the 
threshold  ;  and  all  the  sweet  amenities  of  social 
life  again  resumed  their  interrupted  reign. 

Kavanagh  preached  a  sermon  on  the  coming  of 
autumn.  He  chose  his  text  from  Isaiah,  "  Who 
is  this  that  cometh  from  Edom,  with  dyed  gar- 
ments from  Bozrah  ?  this  that  is  glorious  in  his  ap- 
parel, travelling  in  the  greatness  of  his  strength  ? 
Wherefore  art  thou  red  in  thine  apparel,  and  thy 
garments  like  him  that  treadeth  in  the  wine-vat  ?  " 

To  Mr.  Churchill,  this  beloved  season  —  this 
Joseph  with  his  coat  of  many  colors,  as  he  was 
fond  of  calling  it  —  brought  an  unexpected  guest, 
the  forlorn,  forsaken  Lucy.  The  surmises  of  the 
family  were  too  true.  She  had  wandered  away 
with  the  Bi-iareus  of  boots.  She  returned  alone, 
in  destitution  and  despair ;  and  often,  in  the  grief 
of  a  broken  heart  and  a  bewildered  brain,  was 
heard  to  say,  — 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  were  a  Christian !     If  I  were 


( 


880  KAVANAGH 

only  a  Christian,  I  would  not  live  any  longer ;  I 
would  kill  myself !     I  am  too  wretched  !  " 

A  few  days  afterwards,  a  gloomy-looking  man 
rode  through  the  town  on  horseback,  stopping  at 
every  corner,  and  crying  into  every  street,  with  a 
loud  and  solemn  voice,  — 

"  Prepare !  prepare  !  prepare  to  meet  the  living 
God !  " 

It  was  one  of  that  fanatical  sect  who  believed 
the  end  of  the  world  was  imminent,  and  had  pre- 
pared their  ascension  robes  to  be  lifted  up  in  clouds 
of  glory,  while  the  worn-out,  weary  world  was  to 
burn  with  fire  beneath  them,  and  a  new  and  fairer 
earth  to  be  prei3ared  for  their  inheritance.  The 
appearance  of  this  forerunner  of  the  end  of  the 
world  was  followed  by  numerous  camp-meetings, 
held  in  the  woods  near  the  village,  to  whose  white 
tents  and  leafy  chapels  many  went  for  consolation 
and  found  despair. 

XXIII. 

Again  the  two  crumbly  old  women  sat  and 
talked  together  in  the  little  parlor  of  the  gloomy 
house  under  the  poplars,  and  the  two  girls  sat 
above,  holding  each  other  by  the  hand,  thoughtful, 
and  speaking  only  at  intervals. 

Alice  was  unusually  sad  and  silent.  The  mists 
were  already  gathering  over  her  vision,  —  those 
mists  that  were  to  deepen  and  darken  as  the  sea- 
son advanced,  until  the  external  world  should  be 
shrouded  and  finally  shut  from  her  view.  Already 
the  landscape  began  to  wear  a  pale  and  sickly  hue, 


A    TALE  381 

as  if  the  sun  were  withdrawing  farther  and  farther, 
and  were  soon  wholly  to  disappear,  as  in  a  northern 
winter.  But  to  brighten  this  northern  winter 
there  now  arose  within  her  a  soft,  auroral  light. 
Yes,  the  auroral  light  of  love,  blushing  through 
the  whole  heaven  of  her  thoughts.  She  had  not 
breathed  that  word  to  herself,  nor  did  she  recog- 
nize any  thrill  of  passion  in  the  new  emotion  she\ 
experienced.  But  love  it  was ;  and  it  lifted  her 
soul  into  a  region  which  she  at  once  felt  was  native 
to  it,  —  into  a  subtler  ether,  which  seemed  its  nat- 
ural element. 

This  feeling,  however,  was  not  all  exhilaration. 
It  brought  with  it  its  own  peculiar  languor  and 
sadness,  its  fluctuations  and  swift  vicissitudes  of 
excitement  and  depression.  To  this  the  trivial 
circumstances  of  life  contributed.  Kavanagh  had 
met  her  in  the  street,  and  had  passed  her  without 
recognition  ;  and,  in  the  bitterness  of  the  moment, 
she  forgot  that  she  wore  a  thick  veil,  which  entirely 
concealed  her  face.  At  an  evening  party  at  Mr. 
Churchill's,  by  a  kind  of  fatality,  Kavanagh  had 
stood  very  near  her  for  a  long  time,  but  with  his 
back  turned,  conversing  with  ISIiss  Hawkins,  from 
whose  toils,  he  was,  in  fact,  though  vainly,  strug- 
gling to  extricate  himseK  ;  and,  in  the  irritation 
of  supposed  neglect,  Alice  had  said  to  herself,  — 

"  This  is  the  kind  of  woman  which  most  fas- 
cinates men !  " 

But  these  cruel  moments  of  pain  were  few  and 
short,  while  those  of  delight  were  many  and  lasting. 
In  a  life  so  lonely,  and  with  so  little  to  enliven 
and  embellish  it  as  hers,  the  guest  in  disguise  was 


382  KAVANAGH 

welcomed  with  ardor,  and  entertained  without  fear 
or  suspicion.  Had  he  been  feared  or  suspected,  he 
wouhl  liave  been  no  longer  dangerous.  He  came 
as  friendship,  where  friendshij)  was  most  needed  ; 
he  came  as  devotion,  where  her  holy  ministrations 
were  always  welcome. 

Somewhat  differently  had  the  same  passion  come 
to  the  heart  of  Cecilia ;  for  as  the  heart  is,  so  is 
love  to  the  heart.  It  partakes  of  its  strength  or 
weakness,  its  health  or  disease.  In  Cecilia,  it  but 
heightened  the  keen  sensation  of  life.  To  all  eyes, 
she  became  more  beautiful,  more  radiant,  more 
lovely,  though  they  knew  not  why.  When  she 
and  Kavanagh  first  met,  it  was  hardly  as  strangers 
meet,  but  rather  as  friends  long  separated.  When 
they  first  spoke  to  each  other,  it  seemed  but  as  the 
renewal  of  some  previous  interrupted  conversation. 
Their  souls  flowed  together  at  once,  without  tur- 
bulence or  agitation,  like  waters  on  the  same  level. 
As  they  found  each  other  without  seeking,  so  their 
intercourse  w^as  without  affectation  and  without 
embarrassment. 

Thus,  while  Alice,  unconsciously  to  herself,  de- 
sired the  love  of  Kavanagh,  Cecilia,  as  uncon- 
sciously, assumed  it  as  already  her  own.  Alice 
keenly  felt  her  own  unworthiness  ;  Cecilia  made 
no  comparison  of  merit.  When  Kavanagh  was 
present,  Alice  was  happy,  but  embarrassed ;  Cecilia, 
joyous  and  natural.  The  former  feared  she  might 
displease  ;  the  latter  di\nned  from  the  first  that 
she  already  pleased.  In  both,  this  was  the  intuition 
of  the  heart. 

So  sat  the  friends  together,  as  they  had  done  so 


A    TALE  383 

many  times  before.  But  now,  for  the  first  time, 
each  cherished  a  secret,  which  she  did  not  confide 
to  the  other.  Daily,  for  many  weeks,  the  feathered 
courier  had  come  and  gone  from  window  to  window, 
but  this  secret  had  never  been  intrusted  to  his 
keeping.  Almost  daily  the  friends  had  met  and 
talked  together,  but  this  secret  had  not  been  told. 
That  could  not  be  confided  to  another,  which  had 
not  been  confided  to  themselves  ;  that  could  not  be 
fashioned  into  words,  which  was  not  yet  fashioned 
into  thoughts,  but  was  still  floating,  vague  and 
formless,  through  the  mind.  Nay,  had  it  been 
stated  in  words,  each,  perhaps,  would  have  denied 
it.  The  distinct  apparition  of  this  fair  spirit,  in  a 
visible  form,  would  have  startled  them  ;  though, 
while  it  haunted  all  the  chambers  of  their  souls  as 
an  invisible  presence,  it  gave  them  only  solace  and 
delight. 

"  How  very  feverish  your  hand  is,  dearest  !  " 
said  Cecilia.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you 
unwell  ?  " 

"  Those  are  the  very  words  my  mother  said  to 
me  this  moi'ning,"  replied  Alice.  "  I  feel  rather 
languid  and  tired,  that  is  all.  I  could  not  sleep 
last  night ;  I  never  can,  when  it  rains." 

"  Did  it  rain  last  night  ?     I  did  not  hear  it." 

"  Yes  ;  about  midnight,  quite  hard.  I  listened 
to  it  for  hours.  I  love  to  lie  awake,  and  hear  the 
drops  fall  on  the  roof,  and  on  the  leaves.  It  throws 
me  into  a  delicious,  dreamy  state,  which  I  like 
much  better  than  sleep." 

Cecilia  looked  tenderly  at  her  pale  face.  Her 
eyes  were  very  bright,  and  on  each  cheek  was  a 


384  KAVANAGH 

crimson  signal,  the  sight  of  which  would  have 
given  her  mother  so  much  anguish,  that,  perhaps, 
it  was  better  for  her  to  be  blind  than  to  see. 

"  When  you  enter  the  land  of  dreams,  Alice, 
you  come  into  my  peculiar  realm.  1  am  the  queen 
of  that  country,  you  know.  But,  of  late,  I  have 
thought  of  resigning  my  throne.  These  endless 
reveries  are  really  a  great  waste  of  time  and 
strength." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  Mr.  Kavanagh  thinks  so,  too.  We 
talked  about  it  the  other  evening ;  and  afterwards, 
upon  reflection,  I  thought  he  was  right." 

And  the  friends  resolved,  half  in  jest  and  half 
in  earnest,  that,  from  that  day  forth,  the  gate  of 
their  day-dreams  should  be  closed.  And  closed  it 
was,  erelong ;  —  for  one,  by  the  Angel  of  Life  ; 
for  the  other,  by  the  Angel  of  Death ! 

XXIV. 

The  project  of  the  new  Magazine  being  heard 
of  no  more,  and  Mr.  Churchill  being  consequently 
deprived  of  his  one  hundi-ed  and  fifty  thousand 
readers,  he  laid  aside  the  few  notes  he  had  made 
for  his  papers  on  the  Obscure  Martyrs,  and  turned 
his  thoughts  again  to  the  great  Romance.  A 
whole  leisure  Saturday  afternoon  was  before  him, 
—  pure  gold,  without  alloy.  Ere  beginning  his 
task,  he  stepped  forth  into  his  garden  to  inhale  the 
sunny  air,  and  let  his  thoughts  recede  a  little,  in 
order  to  leap  farther.  When  he  returned,  glowing 
and  radiant  with  poetic  fancies,  he  found,  to  his 


A    TALE  385 

unspeakable  dismay,  an  unknown  damsel  sitting  in 
his  arm-chair.  She  was  rather  gayly  yet  elegantly 
dressed,  and  wore  a  veil,  which  she  raised  as  Mr. 
Churchill  entered,  fixing  upon  him  the  full,  liquid 
orbs  of  her  large  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Churchill,  I  suppose  ? "  said  she,  rising, 
and  stepping  forward. 

"  The  same,"  replied  the  schoolmaster,  with  dig- 
nified courtesy. 

"And  will  you  permit  me,"  she  continued,  not 
without  a  certain  serene  self-possession,  "  to  intro- 
duce myself,  for  want  of  a  better  person  to  do  it 
for  me  ?  My  name  is  Cartwright,  —  Clarissa 
Cartwright." 

This  announcement  did  not  produce  that  pow- 
erful and  instantaneous  effect  on  Mr.  Churchill 
which  the  speaker  seemed  to  anticipate,  or  at  least 
to  hope.  His  eye  did  not  brighten  with  any  quick 
recognition,  nor  did  he  suddenly  exclaim,  — 

"  What !  Are  you  Miss  Cartwright,  the  poetess, 
whose  delififhtful  effusions  I  have  seen  in  all  the 
magaznies  ?  "  J 

On  the  contrary,  he  looked  rather  blank  and 
expectant,  and  only  said,  — 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  ;  pray  sit  down." 

So  that  the  young  lady  herself  was  obliged  to 
communicate  the  literary  intelligence  above  al- 
luded to,  which  she  did  very  gracefully,  and  then 
added,  — 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  a  great  favor  of  you,  Mr. 
Chux'chill,  which  1  hope  you  will  not  deny  me.  By 
the  advice  of  some  friends,  I  have  collected  my 
poems  together,"  —  and  here  she  drew  forth  from 


386  KAVANAGII 

a  paper  a  large,  thin  manuscript,  bound  in  crimson 
velvet,  —  "  and  think  of  publishing  them  in  a  vol- 
ume. Now,  woidd  you  do  me  the  favor  to  look 
them  over,  and  give  me  your  candid  opinion, 
whether  they  are  worth  publishing  ?  I  should 
value  your  advice  so  highly  !  " 

This  simultaneous  appeal  to  his  vanity  and  his 
gallantry  from  a  fair  young  girl,  standing  on  the 
verge  of  that  broad,  dangerous  ocean,  in  which  so 
many  have  perished,  and  looking  wistfully  over  its 
flashing  waters  to  the  shores  of  the  green  Isle  of 
Palms,  —  such  an  appeal,  from  such  a  person,  it 
was  impossible  for  Mr.  Churchill  to  resist.  He 
made,  however,  a  faint  show  of  resistance,  —  a 
feeble  grasping  after  some  excuse  for  refusal,  — 
and  then  yielded.  He  received  from  Clarissa's 
delicate,  trembling  hand  the  precious  volume,  and 
from  her  eyes  a  still  more  precious  look  of  thanks, 
and  then  said,  — 

"What  name  do  you  propose  to  give  the  vol- 
ume ?  " 

"  Symphonies  of  the  Soul,  and  other  Poems," 
said  the  young  lady ;  "  and,  if  you  like  them,  and 
it  would  not  be  asking  too  much,  I  should  be  de- 
lighted to  have  you  write  a  Preface,  to  introduce 
the  work  to  the  public.  The  publisher  says  it 
would  increase  the  sale  very  considerably." 

"  Ah,  the  publisher !  yes,  but  that  is  not 
very  complimentary  to  yourself,"  suggested  Mr. 
Churchill.  "  I  can  already  see  your  Poems  re- 
belling against  the  intrusion  of  my  Preface,  and 
rising  like  so  many  nuns  in  a  convent  to  expel 
the  audacious  foot  that  has  dared  to  invade  their 
sacred  precincts." 


A    TALE  387 

But  it  was  all  in  vain,  this  pale  effort  at  pleas- 
antry. Objection  was  useless,  and  the  soft-hearted 
schoolmaster  a  second  time  yielded  gracefully  to 
his  fate,  and  promised  the  Preface.  The  young 
lady  took  her  leave  with  a  profusion  of  thanks  and 
blushes,  and  the  dainty  manuscript,  with  its  del- 
icate chirography  and  crimson  cover,  remained  in 
the  hands  of  Mr.  Churchill,  who  gazed  at  it  less  as 
a  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices  than  as  a  deed  or 
mortgage  of  so  many  precious  hours  of  his  own 
scanty  inheritance  of  time. 

Afterwards,  when  he  complained  a  little  of  this 
to  his  wife,  —  who,  during  the  interview,  had 
peeped  in  at  the  door,  and,  seeing  how  he  was  oc- 
cupied, had  immediately  withdrawn,  —  she  said 
that  nobody  was  to  blame  but  himseK ;  that  he 
should  learn  to  say  "  No  !  "  and  not  do  just  as 
every  romantic  girl  from  the  Academy  wanted  him 
to  do  ;  adding,  as  a  final  aggravation  and  climax 
of  reproof,  that  she  really  believed  he  never  would, 
and  never  meant  to,  begin  his  Romance  ! 

XXV. 

Not  long  afterwards,  Kavanagh  and  Mr.  Church- 
ill took  a  stroll  together  across  the  fields,  and  down 
green  lanes,  walking  all  the  bright,  brief  after- 
noon. From  the  summit  of  the  hill,  beside  the 
old  windmill,  they  saw  the  sun  set,  and,  opposite, 
the  full  moon  rise,  dewy,  large,  and  red.  As  they 
descended,  they  felt  the  heavy  dampness  of  the  air, 
like  water,  rising  to  meet  them,  —  bathing  with 
coolness  first  their  feet,  then   their   hands,  then 


388  KA  VAN  A  GH 

their  faces,  till  they  were  submerged  in  that  sea  of 
dew.  As  they  skirted  the  woodland  on  their  home- 
ward way,  trampling  the  golden  leaves  underfoot, 
they  heard  voices  at  a  distance,  singing  ;  and  then 
saw  the  lights  of  the  camp  -  meeting  gleaming 
through  the  trees,  and,  drawing  nearer,  distin- 
guished a  portion  of  the  hymn  :  — 

Don't  you  hear  the  Lord  a-coming 
To  the  old  churchyards, 

With  a  band  of  music, 

With  a  band  of  music, 

With  a  band  of  music, 
Sounding  through  the  air  ? 

These  words,  at  once  awful  and  ludicrous,  rose 
on  the  still  twilight  air  from  a  hundred  voices, 
thrilling  with  emotion,  and  from  as  many  beating, 
fluttering,  struggling  hearts.  High  above  them 
all  was  heard  one  voice,  clear  and  musical  as  a 
clarion. 

"  I  know  that  voice,"  said  Mr.  Churchill ;  "  it  is 
Elder  Evans's." 

"Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Kavanagh, — for  only  the  im- 
pression of  awe  was  upon  him,  —  "  he  never  acted 
in  a  deeper  tragedy  than  this  !  How  terrible  it  is ! 
Let  us  pass  on." 

They  hurried  away,  Kavanagh  trembling  in 
every  fibre.  Silently  they  walked,  the  music  fad- 
ing into  softest  vibrations  behind  them. 

"  How  strange  is  this  fanaticism !  "  at  length 
said  Mr.  Churchill,  rather  as  a  relief  to  his  own 
thoughts,  than  for  the  purpose  of  reviving  the  con- 
versation. "  These  people  really  believe  that  the 
end  of  the  world  is  close  at  hand." 

"  And  to  thousands,"  answered  Kavanagh,  "  this 


A    TALE  389 

is  no  fiction,  —  no  illusion  of  an  over-heated  imag- 
ination. To-day,  to-morrow,  every  day,  to  thou- 
sands, the  end  of  the  world  is  close  at  hand.  And 
why  should  we  fear  it  ?  We  walk  here  as  it  were 
in  the  crypts  of  life  ;  at  times,  fi-om  the  great  ca- 
thedral above  us,  we  can  hear  the  organ  and  the 
chanting  of  the  choir;  we  see  the  light  stream 
through  the  open  door,  when  some  friend  goes  up 
before  us  ;  and  shall  we  fear  to  mount  the  narrow 
staircase  of  the  grave,  that  leads  us  out  of  this  un- 
certain twilight  into  the  serene  mansions  of  the 
life  eternal  ?  " 

They  reached  the  wooden  bridge  over  the  river, 
which  the  moonlight  converted  into  a  river  of  light. 
Their  footsteps  sounded  on  the  planks  ;  they  passed 
without  perceiving  a  female  figure  that  stood  in 
the  shadow  below  on  the  brink  of  the  stream, 
watching  wistfully  the  steady  flow  of  the  current. 
It  was  Lucy  !  Her  bonnet  and  shawl  were  lying 
at  her  feet ;  and  when  they  had  passed,  she  waded 
far  out  into  the  shallow  stream,  laid  herself  gently 
down  in  its  deeper  waves,  and  floated  slowly  away 
into  the  moonlight,  among  the  golden  leaves  that 
were  faded  and  fallen  like  herself,  —  among  the 
water-lilies,  whose  fragrant  white  blossoms  had 
been  broken  off  and  polluted  long  ago.  Without 
a  struggle,  without  a  sigh,  without  a  sound,  she 
floated  downward,  downward,  and  silently  sank 
into  the  silent  river.  Far  off,  faint,  and  indistinct, 
was  heard  the  startling  hymn,  with  its  wild  and 
peculiar  melody,  — 

Oh,  there  will  he  mourning',  mourning,  mourning,  mourning,  — • 
Oh,  there  will  be  mourning,  at  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ  I 


890  KAVANAGH 

Kavanagh's  heart  was  full  of  sadness.  He  left 
Mr.  Churchill  at  his  door,  and  proceeded  home- 
ward. On  passing  his  church,  he  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  go  in.  He  climbed  to  his  cham- 
ber in  the  tower,  lighted  by  the  moon.  He  sat  for 
a  long  time  gazing  from  the  window,  and  watching 
a  distant  and  feeble  candle,  whose  rays  scarcely 
reached  him  across  the  brilliant  moon-lighted  air. 
Gentler  thoughts  stole  over  him  ;  an  invisible  pres- 
ence soothed  him ;  an  invisible  hand  was  laid  upon 
his  head,  and  the  trouble  and  unrest  of  his  spirit 
were  changed  to  peace. 

"Answer  me,  thou  mysterious  future ! "  exclaimed 
he  ;  "  tell  me,  —  shall  these  things  be  according  to 
my  desires  ?  " 

And  the  mysterious  future,  interpreted  by  those 
desires,  replied,  — 

"  Soon  thou  shalt  know  all.  It  shall  be  well 
with  thee ! " 


XXVI. 

On  the  following  morning,  Kavanagh  sat  as 
usual  in  his  study  in  the  tower.  No  traces  were 
left  of  the  heaviness  and  sadness  of  the  preceding 
night.  It  was  a  bright,  warm  morning  ;  and  the 
window,  open  towards  the  south,  let  in  the  genial 
sunshine.  The  odor  of  decaying  leaves  scented  the 
air ;  far  off  flashed  the  hazy  river. 

Kavanagh's  heart,  however,  was  not  at  rest.  At 
times  he  rose  from  his  books,  and  paced  up  and 
down  his  little  study  ;  then  took  up  his  hat  as  if 
to  go  out ;  then  laid  it  down  again,  and  again  re- 


A    TALE  391 

sumed  his  books.  At  length  he  arose,  and,  lean- 
ing on  the  wintlow-sill,  gazed  for  a  long  time  on 
the  scene  before  him.  Some  thought  was  labor- 
ing in  his  bosom,  some  doubt  or  fear,  which 
alternated  with  hope,  but  thwarted  any  fixed 
resolve. 

Ah,  how  pleasantly  that  fair  autumnal  land- 
scape smiled  upon  him !  The  great  golden  elms 
that  marked  the  line  of  the  village  street,  and 
under  whose  shadows  no  beggars  sat;  the  air  of 
comfort  and  plenty,  of  neatness,  thrift,  and  equal- 
ity, visible  everywhere ;  and  from  far-off  farms  the 
sound  of  flails,  beating  the  triumphal  march  of 
Ceres  through  the  land ;  —  these  were  the  sights 
and  sounds  that  greeted  him  as  he  looked.  Silently 
the  yellow  leaves  fell  upon  the  graves  in  the  church- 
yard, and  the  dew  glistened  in  the  grass,  which 
was  still  long  and  green. 

Presently  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a  dove, 
pursued  by  a  little  king-bird,  who  constantly  en- 
deavored to  soar  above  it,  in  order  to  attack  it  at 
greater  advantage.  The  flight  of  the  birds,  thus 
shooting  through  the  air  at  arrowy  speed,  was 
beautiful.  When  they  were  opposite  the  tower, 
the  dove  suddenly  wheeled,  and  darted  in  at  the 
open  window,  while  the  pursuer  held  on  his  way 
with  a  long  sweep,  and  was  out  of  sight  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

At  the  first  glance,  Kavanagh  recognized  the 
dove,  which  lay  panting  on  the  floor.  It  was  the 
same  he  had  seen  Cecilia  buy  of  the  little  man  in 
gray.  He  took  it  in  his  hands.  Its  heart  was 
beating  violently.     About  its  neck  was  a  silken 


392  KAVANAGIl 

band ;  beneath  its  wing  a  billet,  npon  whicli  was  a 
single  word,  "  Cecilia."  The  bird,  then,  was  on  its 
way  to  Cecilia  Vaughan.  He  hailed  the  omen  as 
auspicious,  and,  immediately  closing  the  window, 
seated  himself  at  his  table,  and  wrote  a  few  hur- 
ried words,  which,  being  carefully  folded  and 
sealed,  he  fastened  to  the  band,  and  then  hastily, 
as  if  afraid  his  purpose  might  be  changed  by  de- 
lay, opened  the  window  and  set  the  bird  at  liberty. 
It  sailed  once  or  twice  round  the  tower,  apparently 
uncertain  and  bewildered,  or  still  in  fear  of  its 
pursuer.  Then,  instead  of  holding  its  way  over 
the  fields  to  Cecilia  Vaughan,  it  darted  over  the 
roofs  of  the  village,  and  alighted  at  the  window 
of  Alice  Archer. 

Having  written  that  morning  to  Cecilia  some- 
thing urgent  and  confidential,  she  was  already 
waiting  the  answer;  and,  not  doubting  that  the 
bird  had  brought  it,  she  hastily  untied  the  silken 
band,  and,  without  looking  at  the  superscription, 
opened  the  first  note  that  fell  on  the  table.  It 
was  very  brief  —  only  a  few  lines,  and  not  a  name 
mentioned  in  it ;  an  impulse,  an  ejacidation  of 
love ;  every  line  quivering  with  electric  fire,  — 
every  word  a  pulsation  of  the  writer's  heart.  It 
was  signed  "  Arthur  Kavanagh." 

Overwhelmed  by  the  suddenness  and  violence  of 
her  emotions,  Alice  sat  for  a  long  time  motionless, 
holding  the  open  letter  in  her  hand.  Then  she 
read  it  again,  and  then  relapsed  into  her  dream  of 
joy  and  wonder.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say 
which  of  the  two  emotions  was  the  greater,  — 
her  joy  that  her  prayer  for  love  should  be  an- 


A    TALE  393 

swered,  and  so  answered,  —  her  wonder  that 
Kavanagh  should  have  selected  her !  In  the 
tumult  of  her  sensations,  and  hardly  conscious  of 
what  she  was  doing,  she  folded  the  note  and  re- 
placed it  in  its  envelope.  Then,  for  the  first  time, 
her  eye  fell  on  the  superscription.  It  was  "  Cecilia 
Vaughan."      Alice  fainted. 

On  recovering  her  senses,  her  first  act  was  one 
of  heroism.  She  sealed  the  note,  attached  it  to 
the  neck  of  the  pigeon,  and  sent  the  messenger 
rejoicing  on  his  journey.  Then  her  feelings  had 
way,  and  she  wept  long  and  bitterly.  Then,  with 
a  desperate  calmness,  she  reproved  her  own  weak- 
ness and  selfishness,  and  felt  that  she  ought  to  re- 
joice in  the  happiness  of  her  friend,  and  sacrifice 
her  affection,  even  her  life,  to  her.  Her  heart  ex- 
culpated Kavanagh  from  all  blame.  He  had  not 
deluded  her ;  she  had  deluded  herself.  She  alone 
was  in  fault ;  and  in  deep  humiliation,  with 
wounded  pride  and  wounded  love,  and  utter  self- 
abasement,  she  bowed  her  head  and  prayed  for 
consolation  and  fortitude. 

One  consolation  she  already  had.  The  secret 
was  her  own.  She  had  not  revealed  it  even  to 
Cecilia.  Kavanagh  did  not  suspect  it.  Public 
curiosity,  public  pity,  she  would  not  have  to 
undergo. 

She  was  resigned.  She  made  the  heroic  sacri- 
fice of  self,  leaving  her  sorrow  to  the  great  physi- 
cian. Time,  —  the  nurse  of  care,  the  healer  of  all 
smarts,  the  soother  and  consoler  of  all  sorrows. 
And,  thenceforward,  she  became  unto  Kavanagh 
what  the  moon  is  to  the  sun,  forever  following, 
forever  separated,  forever  sad  ! 


394  KAVANAGH 

As  a  traveller,  about  to  start  upon  his  journey, 
resolved  and  yet  irresolute,  watches  the  clouds,  and 
notes  the  struggle  between  the  sunshine  and  the 
showers,  and  says,  "  It  will  be  fair ;  I  will  go,"  — 
and  again  says,  "  Ah,  no,  not  yet ;  the  rain  is  not 
yet  over,"  —  so  at  this  same  hour  sat  Cecilia 
Vaughan,  resolved  and  yet  irresolute,  longing  to 
depart  upon  the  fair  journey  before  her,  and  yet 
lingering  on  the  paternal  threshold,  as  if  she 
wished  both  to  stay  and  to  go,  seeing  the  sky  was 
not  without  its  clouds,  nor  the  road  without  its 
dangers. 

It  was  a  beautiful  picture,  as  she  sat  there  with 
sweet  perplexity  in  her  face,  and  above  it  an  im- 
mortal radiance  streaming  from  her  brow.  She 
was  like  Guercino's  Sibyl,  with  the  scroll  of  fate 
and  the  uplifted  pen  ;  and  the  scroll  she  held  con- 
tained but  three  words,  —  three  words  that  con- 
trolled the  destiny  of  a  man,  and,  by  their  soft 
impulsion,  dii-ected  forevermore  the  current  of  his 
thoughts.     They  were,  — 

"  Come  to  me !  " 

The  magic  syllables  brought  Kavanagh  to  her 
side.  The  full  soul  is  silent.  Only  the  rising  and 
falling  tides  rush  murmuring  through  their  chan- 
nels. So  sat  the  lovers,  hand  in  hand  ;  but  for  a 
long  time  neither  spake,  —  neither  had  need  of 
speech ! 

XXVII. 

In  the  afternoon,  Cecilia  went  to  communicate 
the  news  to  Alice  with  her  own  lips,  thinking  it 


A    TALE  395 

too  important  to  be  intrusted  to  the  wings  of  the 
carrier-pigeon.  As  she  entered  the  door,  the 
cheerful  doctor  was  coining  out ;  but  this  was  no 
unusual  apparition,  and  excited  no  alarm.  Mrs. 
Archer,  too,  according  to  custom,  was  sitting  in 
the  little  parlor  with  her  decrepit  old  neighbor, 
who  seemed  almost  to  have  taken  up  her  abode 
under  that  roof,  so  many  hours  of  every  day  did 
she  pass  there. 

With  a  light,  elastic  step,  Cecilia  bounded  up  to 
Alice's  room.  She  found  her  reclinins:  in  her 
large  chair,  flushed  and  excited.  Sitting  down  by 
her  side,  and  taking  both  her  hands,  she  said,  with 
great  emotion  in  the  tones  of  her  voice,  — 

"  Dearest  Alice,  I  have  brought  you  some  news 
that  I  am  sure  will  make  you  well.  For  my  sake, 
you  will  be  no  longer  ill  when  you  hear  it.  I  am 
engaged  to  Mr.  Kavanagh  !  " 

Alice  feigned  no  surprise  at  this  announcement. 
She  returned  the  warm  pressure  of  Cecilia's  hand, 
and,  looking  affectionately  in  her  face,  said  very 
calmly,  — 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  I  knew  that  he  loved 
you,  and  that  you  would  love  him." 

"  How  could  I  help  it  ?  "  said  Cecilia,  her  eyes 
beaming  with  dewy  light ;  "  could  any  one  help 
loving  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Alice,  throwing  her  arms 
around  Cecilia's  neck,  and  laying  her  head  upon 
her  shoulder  ;  "  at  least,  no  one  whom  he  loved. 
But  when  did  this  happen  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it, 
dearest !  " 

Cecilia  was  surprised,  and  perhaps  a  little  hurt, 


396  KA  VAN  A  Gil 

at  the  quiet,  almost  impassive  manner  in  which 
her  friend  received  this  great  intelligence.  She 
had  expected  exclamations  of  wonder  and  delight, 
and  such  a  glow  of  excitement  as  that  with  which 
she  was  sure  she  shoxdd  have  hailed  the  announce- 
ment of  Alice's  engagement.  But  this  momentary 
annoyance  was  soon  swept  away  by  the  tide  of 
her  own  joyous  sensations,  as  she  proceeded  to  re- 
call to  the  recollection  of  her  friend  the  thousand 
little  circumstances  that  had  marked  the  progress 
of  her  love  and  Kavanagh's ;  things  which  she 
must  have  noticed,  which  she  could  not  have  for- 
gotten; with  questions  interspersed  at  intervals, 
such  as,  "  Do  you  recollect  when  ?  "  and  "  I  am 
sure  you  have  not  forgotten,  have  you  ? "  and 
dreamy  little  pauses  of  silence,  and  intercalated 
sighs.  She  related  to  her,  also,  the  perilous  ad- 
venture of  the  carrier-pigeon ;  how  it  had  been 
pursued  by  the  cruel  king-bird  ;  how  it  had  taken 
refuge  in  Kavanagh's  tower,  and  had  been  the 
bearer  of  his  letter,  as  well  as  her  own.  When 
she  had  finished,  she  felt  her  bosom  wet  with  the 
tears  of  Alice,  who  was  suffering  martyrdom  on 
that  soft  breast,  so  full  of  happiness.  Tears  of 
bitterness,  —  tears  of  blood !  And  Cecilia,  in  the 
exultant  temper  of  her  soul  at  the  moment,  thought 
them  tears  of  joy,  and  pressed  Alice  closer  to  her 
heart,  and  kissed  and  caressed  her. 

"  Ah,  how  very  happy  you  are,  Cecilia !  "  at 
length  sighed  the  poor  sufferer,  in  that  slightly 
querulous  tone  to  which  Cecilia  was  not  unaccus- 
tomed ;  "  how  very  happy  you  are,  and  how  very 
wretched  am  I !     You  have  all  the  joy  of  life,  I  all 


A    TALE  397 

its  loneliness.  How  little  you  will  tliink  of  me 
now !  How  little  you  will  need  me  !  I  shall  be 
nothing  to  you,  —  you  will  forget  me." 

"  Never,  clearest !  "  exclaimed  Cecilia,  with  much 
warmth  and  sincerity.  "  I  shall  love  you  only  the 
more.  We  shall  both  love  you.  You  will  now 
have  two  friends  instead  of  one."  * 

"  Yes  ;  but  both  will  not  be  equal  to  the  one  I 
lose.  No,  Cecilia ;  let  us  not  make  to  ourselves 
any  illusions.  I  do  not.  You  cannot  now  be  with 
me  so  much  and  so  often  as  you  have  been.  Even 
if  you  were,  your  thoughts  would  be  elsewhere. 
Ah,  I  have  lost  my  friend,  when  most  I  needed 
her !  " 

Cecilia  protested  ardently  and  earnestly,  and 
dilated  with  eagerness  on  her  little  plan  of  life,  in 
which  their  romantic  friendship  was  to  gain  only 
new  strength  and  beauty  from  the  more  romantic 
love.  She  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the 
street  door ;  on  hearing  which,  she  paused  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  said,  — 

"  It  is  Arthur.     He  was  to  call  for  me." 

Ah,  what  glimpses  of  home,  and  fireside,  and  a 
whole  life  of  happiness  for  Cecilia,  were  revealed 
by  that  one  word  of  love  and  intimacy,  "  Arthur  "  ! 
and  for  Alice,  what  a  sentence  of  doom !  what  sor- 
row without  a  name !  what  an  endless  struggle  of 
love  and  friendship,  of  duty  and  inclination  !  A 
little  quiver  of  the  eyelids  and  the  hands,  a  hasty 
motion  to  raise  her  head  from  Cecilia's  shoulder,  — 
these  were  the  only  outward  signs  of  emotion.  But 
a  terrible  pang  went  to  her  heart ;  her  blood  rushed 
eddying  to  her  brain ;  and  when  Cecilia  had  taken 


398  KAVANAGH 

leave  of  her  with  the  triumphant  look  of  love 
beaming  upon  her  brow,  and  an  elevation  in  her 
whole  attitude  and  bearing,  as  if  borne  up  by  at- 
tendant angels,  she  sank  back  into  her  chair,  ex- 
hausted, fainting,  fearing,  longing,  hoping  to  die. 

And  below  sat  the  two  old  women,  talking  of 
moths,  and  cheap  furniture,  and  what  was  the  best 
remedy  for  rheumatism  ;  and  from  the  door  went 
forth  two  happy  hearts,  beating  side  by  side  with 
the  pulse  of  youth  and  hope  and  joy,  and  within 
them  and  around  them  was  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth  ! 

Only  those  who  have  lived  in  a  small  town  can 
really  know  how  great  an  event  therein  is  a  new 
engagement.  From  tongue  to  tongue  passes  the 
swift  countersign ;  from  eye  to  eye  flashes  the 
illumination  of  joy,  or  the  bale-fire  of  alarm  ;  the 
streets  and  houses  ring  with  it,  as  with  the  pen- 
etrating, all-pervading  sound  of  the  village  bell  ; 
the  whole  community  feels  a  thrill  of  sympathy, 
and  seems  to  congratulate  itself  that  all  the  great 
events  are  by  no  means  confined  to  the  great  towns. 
As  Cecilia  and  Kavanagh  passed  arm  in  arm 
through  the  village,  many  curious  eyes  watched 
them  from  the  windows,  many  hearts  grown  cold 
or  careless  rekindled  their  household  fires  of  love 
from  the  golden  altar  of  God,  borne  through  the 
streets  by  those  pure  and  holy  hands  ! 

The  intelligence  of  the  engagement,  however, 
was  received  very  differently  by  different  persons. 
Mrs.  Wilmerdings  wondered,  for  her  part,  why 
anybody  wanted  to  get  married  at  all.  The  little 
taxidermist  said  he  knew  it  would  be  so  from  the 


A    TALE  399 

very  first  day  they  had  met  at  his  aviary.  Miss 
Hawkins  lost  suddenly  much  of  her  piety  and  all 
her  patience,  and  laughed  rather  hysterically.  Mr. 
Hawkins  said  it  was  impossible,  but  went  in  secret 
to  consult  a  friend,  an  old  bachelor,  on  the  best 
remedy  for  love  ;  and  the  old  bachelor,  as  one  well 
versed  in  such  affairs,  gravely  advised  him  to  think 
of  the  lady  as  a  beautiful  statue  ! 

Once  more  the  indefatigable  school-girl  took  up 
her  pen,  and  wrote  to  her  foreign  correspondent 
a  letter  that  might  rival  the  famous  epistle  of 
Madame  de  S^vigne  to  her  daughter,  announcing 
the  engagement  of  Mademoiselle  Montpensier. 
Through  the  whole  of  the  first  page,  she  told  her 
to  guess  who  the  lady  was  ;  through  the  whole  of 
the  second,  who  the  gentleman  was  ;  the  third  was 
devoted  to  what  was  said  about  it  in  the  village  ; 
and  on  the  fourth  there  were  two  postscripts,  one 
at  the  top  and  the  other  at  the  bottom,  the  first 
stating  that  they  were  to  be  married  in  the  Spring, 
and  to  go  to  Italy  immediately  afterwards,  and 
the  last,  that  Alice  Archer  was  dangerously  ill  with 
a  fever. 

As  for  the  Churchills,  they  could  find  no  words 
powerful  enough  to  express  their  delight,  but  gave 
vent  to  it  in  a  banquet  on  Thanksgiving-day,  in 
which  the  wife  had  all  the  trouble  and  the  husband 
all  the  pleasure.  In  order  that  the  entertainment 
might  be  worthy  of  the  occasion,  Mr.  Churchill 
wrote  to  the  city  for  the  best  cookery-book ;  and 
the  bookseller,  executing  the  order  in  all  its  ampli- 
tude, sent  him  the  Practical  Guide  to  the  Culinary 
Art  in  all  its  Branches,  by  Frascatelli,  pupil  of  the 


400  KAVANAGH 

celebrated  Careme,  and  Chief  Cook  to  Her  Majesty 
the  Queen,  —  a  ponderous  volume,  illustrated  with 
numerous  engravings,  and  furnished  with  bills  of 
fare  for  every  month  in  the  year,  and  any  number 
of  persons.  This  great  work  was  duly  studied, 
evening  after  evening ;  and  Mr.  Churchill  confessed 
to  his  wife,  that,  although  at  first  startled  by  the 
size  of  the  book,  he  had  really  enjoyed  it  very 
highly,  and  had  been  much  pleased  to  be  present 
in  imagination  at  so  many  grand  entertainments, 
and  to  sit  opposite  the  Queen  without  having  to 
change  his  dress  or  the  general  style  of  his  con- 
versation. 

The  dinner  hour,  as  well  as  the  dinner  itself, 
was  duly  debated.  Mr.  ChurchiU  was  in  favor 
of  the  usual  hour  of  one  ;  but  his  wife  thought 
it  should  be  an  hour  later.  Whereupon  he  re- 
marked, — 

"  King  Henry  the  Eighth  dined  at  ten  o'clock 
and  supped  at  four.  His  queen's  maids  of  honor 
had  a  gallon  of  ale  and  a  chine  of  beef  for  their 
breakfast." 

To  which  his  wife  answered,  — 

"  I  hope  we  shall  have  something  a  little  more 
refined  than  that." 

The  day  on  which  the  banquet  should  take  place 
was  next  discussed,  and  both  agreed  that  no  day 
could  be  so  appropriate  as  Thanksgiving  -  day  ; 
for,  as  Mrs.  Churchill  very  truly  remarked,  it  was 
really  a  day  of  thanksgiving  to  Kavanagh.  She 
then  said,  — 

"  How  very  solemnly  he  read  the  Governor's 
Proclamation  yesterday !    particularly   the   words 


A    TALE  401 

*  God  save  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts  !  ' 
And  what  a  Proclamation  it  was !  When  he  spread 
it  out  on  the  pulpit,  it  looked  like  a  table-cloth  !  " 

Mr.  Churchill  then  asked, 

"  What  day  of  the  week  is  the  first  of  Decem- 
ber ?     Let  me  see,  — 

'  At  Dover  dwells  George  Brown,  Esquire, 
Good  Christopher  Finch  and  Daniel  Friar !  ' 

Thursday." 

"  I  could  have  told  you  that,"  said  his  wife,  "  by 
a  shorter  process  than  your  old  rhyme.  Thanks- 
giving-day always  comes  on  Thursday." 

These  preliminaries  being  duly  settled,  the  din- 
ner was  given. 

There  being  only  six  guests,  and  the  dinner  be- 
ing modelled  upon  one  for  twenty-four  persons, 
Russian  style  in  November,  it  was  very  abundant. 
It  began  with  a  Colbert  soup,  and  ended  with  a 
Nesselrode  pudding ;  but  as  no  allusion  was  made 
in  the  course  of  the  repast  to  the  French  names  of 
the  dishes,  and  the  mutton,  and  turnips,  and  pan- 
cakes were  all  called  by  their  English  patron3anics, 
the  dinner  appeared  less  magnificent  in  reality 
than  in  the  bill  of  fare,  and  the  guests  did  not 
fully  appreciate  how  superb  a  banquet  they  were 
enjoying.  The  hilarity  of  the  occasion  was  not 
marred  by  any  untoward  accident ;  though  once  or 
twice  Mr.  Churchill  was  much  annoyed,  and  the 
company  much  amused,  by  Master  Alfred,  who 
was  allowed  to  be  present  at  the  festivities,  and 
audibly  proclaimed  what  was  coming,  long  before 
it  made  its  appearance.  When  the  dinner  was 
over,  several  of  the  guests  remembered  brilliant 


402  K  A  VAN  AG  H 

and  appropriate  tilings  they  might  have  said,  and 
wondered  they  were  so  dull  as  not  to  think  of 
them  in  season ;  and  when  they  were  all  gone, 
Mr.  Churchill  remarked  to  his  wife  that  he  had 
enjoyed  himself  very  much,  and  that  he  should 
like  to  ask  his  friends  to  just  such  a  dinner  every 
week ' 


XXVIII. 

The  first  snow  came.  How  beautiful  it  was, 
falling  so  silently,  aU  day  long,  all  night  long,  on 
the  mountains,  on  the  meadows,  on  the  roofs  of 
the  living,  on  the  graves  of  the  dead  !  All  white 
save  the  river,  that  marked  its  course  by  a  winding 
black  line  across  the  landscape ;  and  the  leafless 
trees,  that  against  the  leaden  sky  now  revealed 
more  fully  the  wonderful  beauty  and  intricacy  of 
their  branches  ! 

What  silence,  too,  came  with  the  snow,  and  what 
seclusion  !  Every  sound  was  muffled,  every  noise 
changed  to  something  soft  and  musical.  No  more 
trampling  hoofs,  —  no  more  rattling  wheels  !  Only 
the  chiming  sleigh-bells,  beating  as  swift  and  mer- 
rily as  the  hearts  of  children. 

All  day  long,  all  night  long,  the  snow  fell  on  the 
village  and  on  the  churchyard  ;  on  the  happy  home 
of  Cecilia  Vaughan,  on  the  lonely  grave  of  Alice 
Archer  !  Yes  ;  for  before  the  winter  came  she  had 
gone  to  that  land  where  winter  never  comes.  Her 
long  domestic  tragedy  was  ended.  She  was  dead  ; 
and  with  her  had  died  her  secret  sorrow  and  her 
secret  love.     Kavanagh  never  knew  what  wealth 


A    TALE  403 

of  affection  for  him  faded  from  the  world  when 
she  departed ;  Cecilia  never  knew  what  fidelity 
of  friendship,  what  delicate  regard,  what  gentle 
magnanimity,  what  angelic  patience,  had  gone 
with  her  into  the  grave ;  Mr.  Churchill  never 
knew,  that,  while  he  was  exploring  the  Past  for 
records  of  obscure  and  unknown  martyrs,  in  his 
own  village,  near  his  own  door,  before  his  own 
eyes,  one  of  that  silent  sisterhood  had  passed  away 
into  oblivion,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 

How  often,  ah,  how  often,  between  the  desire 
of  the  heart  and  its  fulfilment,  lies  only  the  brief- 
est space  of  time  and  distance,  and  yet  the  desire 
remains  forever  unfulfilled  !  It  is  so  near  that 
we  can  touch  it  with  the  hand,  and  yet  so  far 
away  that  the  eye  cannot  perceive  it.  What  Mr. 
Churchill  most  desired  was  before  him.  The 
Romance  he  was  longing  to  find  and  record  had 
really  occurred  in  his  neighborhood,  among  his  own 
friends.  It  had  been  set  like  a  picture  into  the 
frame- work  of  his  life,  enclosed  within  his  own 
experience.  But  he  could  not  see  it  as  an  object 
apart  from  himself  ;  and  as  he  was  gazing  at  what 
was  remote  and  strange  and  indistinct,  the  nearer 
incidents  of  aspiration,  love,  and  death,  escaped 
him.  They  were  too  near  to  be  clothed  by  the  im- 
agination with  the  golden  vapors  of  romance ;  for 
the  familiar  seems  trivial,  and  only  the  distant  and 
unknown  completely  fill  and  satisfy  the  mind. 

The  winter  did  not  pass  without  its  peculiar  de- 
lights and  recreations.  The  singing  of  the  great 
wood  fires  ;  the  blowing  of  the  wind  over  the  chim- 
ney-tops, as  if  they  were  organ  pipes  ;  the  splendor 


404  KAVANAGH 

of  the  spotless  snow ;  the  purple  wall  built  round 
the  horizon  at  sunset ;  the  sea-suggesting  pines, 
with  the  moan  of  the  billows  in  their  branches, 
on  which  the  snows  were  furled  like  sails  ;  the 
northern  lights  ;  the  stars  of  steel ;  the  transcen- 
dent moonlight,  and  the  lovely  shadows  of  the  leaf- 
less trees  upon  the  snow  ;  —  these  things  did  not 
pass  unnoticed  nor  unremembered.  Eveiy  one 
of  them  made  its  record  upon  the  heart  of  Mr. 
ChurchiU. 

His  twilight  walks,  his  long  Saturday  afternoon 
rambles,  had  again  become  solitary;  for  Kavanagh 
was  lost  to  him  for  such  purposes,  and  his  wife 
was  one  of  those  women  who  never  walk.  Some- 
times he  went  down  to  the  banks  of  the  frozen 
river,  and  saw  the  farmers  crossing  it  with  their 
heavy-laden  sleds,  and  the  Fairmeadow  schooner 
imbedded  in  the  ice ;  and  thought  of  Lapland 
sledges,  and  the  song  of  Kulnasatz,  and  the  dis- 
mantled, ice-locked  vessels  of  the  explorers  in  the 
Arctic  Ocean.  Sometimes  he  went  to  the  neigh- 
boring lake,  and  saw  the  skaters  wheeling  round 
their  fire,  and  speeding  away  before  the  wind ;  and 
in  his  imagination  arose  images  of  the  Norwe- 
gian Skate-Runners,  bearing  the  tidings  of  King 
Charles's  death  from  Frederickshall  to  Drontheim, 
and  of  the  retreating  Swedish  army,  frozen  to 
death  in  its  fireless  tents  among  the  mountains. 
And  then  he  would  watch  the  cutting  of  the  ice 
with  ploughs,  and  the  horses  dragging  the  huge 
blocks  to  the  storehouses,  and  contrast  them  with 
the  Grecian  mules,  bearing  the  snows  of  Mount 
Parnassus  to  the  markets  of  Athens,  in  panniers, 


A    TALE  4*05 

protected  from  the  sun  by  boughs  of  oleander  and 
rhododendron. 

The  rest  of  his  leisure  hours  were  employed  in 
anything  and  everything  save  in  writing  his  Ro- 
mance. A  great  deal  of  time  was  daily  consumed 
in  reading  the  newspapers,  because  it  was  neces- 
sary, he  said,  to  keep  up  with  the  times  ;  and  a 
great  deal  more  in  writing  a  Lyceum  Lecture,  on 
"  What  Lady  Macbeth  might  have  been,  had  her 
energies  been  properly  directed."  He  also  made 
some  little  progress  in  a  poetical  arithmetic,  founded 
on  Bhascara's,  but  relinquished  it,  because  the 
school  committee  thought  it  was  not  practical 
enough,  and  more  than  hinted  that  he  had  better 
adhere  to  the  old  system.  And  still  the  vision  of 
the  great  Romance  moved  before  his  mind,  august 
and  glorious,  a  beautiful  mirage  of  the  desert. 

XXIX. 

The  wedding  did  not  take  place  till  spring. 
And  then  Kavanagh  and  his  Cecilia  departed  on 
their  journey  to  Italy  and  the  East,  —  a  sacred 
mission,  a  visit  like  the  Apostle's  to  the  Seven 
Churches,  nay,  to  all  the  Churches  of  Christen- 
dom ;  he  hoping  by  some  means  to  sow  in  many 
devout  hearts  the  desire  and  prophecy  that  filled  his 
own,  —  the  union  of  all  sects  into  one  universal 
Church  of  Christ.  They  intended  to  be  absent 
one  year  only ;  they  were  gone  three.  It  seemed 
to  their  friends  that  they  never  would  return.  But 
at  length  they  came,  —  the  long  absent,  the  long 
looked  for,  the  long  desired,  ~  bearing  with  them 


40f6  KAVANAGH 

that  delicious  perfume  of  travel,  that  genial,  sunny 
atmosphere,  and  soft,  Ausonian  air,  which  return- 
ing travellers  always  bring  about  them. 

It  was  night  when  they  reached  the  village,  and 
they  could  not  see  what  changes  had  taken  place  in 
it  during  their  absence.  How  it  had  dilated  and 
magnified  itself,  —  how  it  had  jjuffed  itself  up,  and 
bedizened  itself  with  flaunting,  ostentatious  signs, 
—  how  it  stood,  rotund  and  rubicund  with  brick, 
like  a  portly  man,  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  both 
hands  in  his  pockets,  warm,  expansive,  apoplectic, 
and  entertaining  a  very  favorable  opinion  of  him- 
self, —  all  this  they  did  not  see,  for  the  darkness  ; 
but  Kavanagh  beheld  it  all,  and  more,  when  he 
went  forth  on  the  following  morning. 

How  Cecilia's  heart  beat  as  they  drove  up  the 
avenue  to  the  old  house  !  The  piny  odors  in  the 
night  air,  the  solitary  light  at  her  father's  window, 
the  familiar  bark  of  the  dog  Major  at  the  sound 
of  the  wheels,  awakened  feelings  at  once  new  and 
old.  A  sweet  perplexity  of  thought,  a  strange  fa- 
miliarity, a  no  less  pleasing  strangeness !  The 
lifting  of  the  heavy  brass  latch,  and  the  jarring  of 
the  heavy  brass  knocker  as  the  door  closed,  were 
echoes  from  her  childhood.  Mr.  Vaughan  they 
found,  as  usual,  among  his  papers  in  the  study ;  — 
the  same  bland,  white-haired  man,  hardly  a  day 
older  than  when  they  left  him  there.  To  Cecilia 
the  whole  long  absence  in  Italy  became  a  dream, 
and  vanished  away.  Even  Kavanagh  was  for  the 
moment  forgotten.  She  was  a  daughter,  not  a 
wife ;  —  she  had  not  been  married,  she  had  not 
been  in  Italy ! 


A    TALE  407 

In  the  morning,  Kavanagh  sallied  forth  to  find 
the  Fairmeadow  of  his  memory,  but  found  it  not. 
The  railroad  had  completely  transformed  it.  The 
simple  village  had  become  a  very  precocious  town. 
New  shops,  with  new  names  over  the  doors ;  new 
streets,  with  new  forms  and  faces  in  them ;  the 
whole  town  seemed  to  have  been  taken  and  occu- 
pied by  a  besieging  army  of  strangers.  Nothing 
was  permanent  but  the  workhouse,  standing  alone 
in  the  pasture  by  the  river  ;  and,  at  the  end  of  the 
street,  the  school  -  house,  that  other  worldiouse, 
where  in  childhood  we  twist  and  untwist  the  cord- 
age of  the  brain,  that,  later  in  life,  we  may  not  be 
obliged  to  pull  to  pieces  the  more  material  cordage 
of  old  ships. 

Kavanagh  soon  turned  in  despair  from  the  main 
street  into  a  little  green  lane,  where  there  were 
few  houses,  and  where  the  barberry  still  nodded 
over  the  old  stone  wall ;  —  a  place  he  had  much 
loved  in  the  olden  time  for  its  silence  and  seclu- 
sion. He  seemed  to  have  entered  his  ancient  realm 
of  dreams  again,  and  was  walking  with  his  hat 
drawn  a  little  over  his  eyes.  He  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far,  when  he  was  startled  by  a  woman's 
voice,  quite  sharp  and  loud,  crying  from  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  lane.  Looking  up,  he  beheld  a 
small  cottage,  against  the  wall  of  which  rested  a 
ladder,  and  on  this  ladder  stood  the  woman  from 
whom  the  voice  came.  Her  face  was  nearly  con- 
cealed by  a  spacious  gingham  sun-bonnet,  and  in 
her  right  hand  she  held  extended  a  large  brush, 
with  which  she  was  painting  the  front  of  her  cot- 
tage, when  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  Kava- 


408  KAVANAGH 

nagh,  who,  thinking  she  was  calling  to  him,  but 
not  understanding  what  she  said,  made  haste  to 
cross  over  to  her  assistance.  At  this  movement 
her  tone  became  louder  and  more  peremptory,  and 
he  covdd  now  understand  that  her  cry  was  rather  a 
warning  than  an  invitation. 

"  Go  away !  "  she  said,  flourishing  her  brush. 
"  Go  away !  What  are  you  coming  down  here  for, 
when  I  am  on  the  ladder,  painting  my  house  ?  K 
you  don't  go  right  about  yoiu'  business,  I  will  come 
down  and"  — 

"  Why,  Miss  Manchester !  "  exclaimed  Kava- 
nagh  ;  "  how  coidd  I  know  that  you  would  be 
going  up  the  ladder  just  as  I  came  down  the 
lane  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  If  it  is  not  Mr.  Kav- 
anagh !  " 

And  she  scrambled  down  the  ladder  backwards 
with  as  much  grace  as  the  circumstances  permit- 
ted. She,  too,  like  the  rest  of  his  friends  in  the 
village,  showed  symptoms  of  growing  older.  The 
passing  years  had  drunk  a  portion  of  the  light 
from  her  eyes,  and  left  their  traces  on  her  cheeks, 
as  birds  that  drink  at  lakes  leave  their  footprints 
on  the  margin.  But  the  pleasant  smile  remained, 
and  reminded  him  of  the  bygone  days,  when  she 
used  to  open  for  him  the  door  of  the  gloomy  house 
under  the  poplars. 

Many  things  had  she  to  ask,  and  many  to  tell ; 
and  for  full  half  an  hour  Kavanagh  stood  leaning 
over  the  paling,  while  she  remained  among  the 
hollyhocks,  as  stately  and  red  as  the  plants  them- 
selves.    At  parting,  she  gave  him  one  of  the  flow* 


A    TALE  409 

ers  for  his  wife ;  and,  when  he  was  fairly  out  of 
sight,  again  climbed  the  perilous  ladder,  and  re- 
sumed her  fresco  painting. 

Through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  these  later  years, 
Sally  had  remained  true  to  her  principles  and  reso- 
lution. At  Mrs.  Archer's  death,  which  occurred 
soon  after  Kavanagh's  wedding,  she  had  retired  to  . 
this  little  cottage,  bought  and  paid  for  by  her  own 
savings.  Though  often  urged  by  Mr.  Vaughan's 
man,  Silas,  who  breathed  his  soul  out  upon  the  air 
of  summer  evenings  through  a  keyed  bugle,  she 
resolutely  refused  to  marry.  In  vain  did  he  send 
her  letters  written  with  his  own  blood,  —  going 
barefooted  into  the  brook  to  be  bitten  by  leeches, 
and  then  using  his  feet  as  inkstands  :  she  refused 
again  and  again.  Was  it  that  in  some  blue  cham- 
ber, or  some  little  warm  back  parlor,  of  her  heart, 
the  portrait  of  the  inconstant  dentist  was  still  hang- 
ing ?  Alas,  no  !  But  as  to  some  hearts  it  is  given 
in  youth  to  blossom  with  the  fragrant  blooms  of 
young  desire,  so  others  are  doomed  by  a  mysterious 
destiny  to  be  checked  in  Spring  by  chill  winds, 
blowing;  over  the  bleak  common  of  the  world.  So 
had  it  been  with  her  desires  and  thoughts  of  love. 
Fear  now  predominated  over  hope  ;  and  to  die  un- 
married had  become  to  her  a  fatality  which  she 
dared  not  resist. 

In  the  course  of  his  long  conversation  with  Miss 
Manchester,  Kavanagh  learned  many  things  about 
the  inhabitants  of  the  town.  Mrs.  Wilmerdings 
was  still  carrying  on  her  labors  in  the  "  Dunstable 
and  eleven-braid,  open-work  and  colored  straws." 
Her  husband  had  taken  to  the  tavern,  and  often 


410  KAVANAGII 

came  home  very  late,  "  with  a  brick  in  his  hat,"  as 
Sally  expressed  it.  Their  son  and  heir  was  far 
away  in  the  Pacific,  on  board  a  whale-ship.  Miss 
Amelia  Hawkins  remained  unmarried,  though  pos- 
sessing a  talent  for  matrimony  which  amounted 
almost  to  genius.  Her  brother,  the  poet,  was  no 
more.  Finding  it  impossible  to  follow  the  old 
bachelor's  advice,  and  look  upon  Miss  Vaughan  as 
a  beautiful  statue,  he  made  one  or  two  attempts, 
but  in  vain,  to  throw  himself  away  on  unworthy 
objects,  and  then  died.  At  this  event,  two  elderly 
maidens  went  into  mourning  simultaneously,  each 
thinking  herseK  engaged  to  him ;  and  suddenly 
went  out  of  it  again,  mutually  indignant  with  each 
other,  and  mortified  with  themselves.  The  little 
taxidermist  was  still  hopping  about  in  his  aviary, 
looking  more  than  ever  like  his  gray  African  j)ar- 
rot.     Mrs.  Archer's  house  was  uninhabited. 


XXX. 

Kavanagh  continued  his  walk  in  the  direction 
of  Mr.  Churchill's  residence.  This,  at  least,  was 
unchanged,  —  quite  unchanged.  The  same  white 
front,  the  same  brass  knocker,  the  same  old 
wooden  gate,  with  its  chain  and  ball,  the  same 
damask  roses  under  the  windows,  the  same  sun- 
shine without  and  within.  The  outer  door  and 
study  door  were  both  open,  as  usual  in  the  warm 
weather,  and  at  the  table  sat  Mr.  Churchill,  writ- 
ing. Over  each  ear  was  a  black  and  inky  stump 
of  a  pen,  which,  like  the  two  ravens  perched  on 
Odin's  shoulders,  seemed  to  whisper  to  him  all  that 


A    TALE  411 

passed  in  heaven  and  on  earth.  On  this  occasion, 
their  revehitions  were  of  the  earth.  He  was  cor- 
recting school  exercises. 

The  joyful  welcome  of  Mr.  Churchill,  as  Kava- 
nagh  entered,  and  the  cheerful  sound  of  their 
voices,  soon  brought  Mrs.  Churchill  to  the  study, 
—  her  eyes  bluer  than  ever,  her  cheeks  fairei",  her 
form  more  round  and  full.  The  children  came  in 
also,  —  Alfred  grown  to  boy's  estate  and  exalted 
into  a  jacket,  and  the  baby,  that  was  less  than 
two  years  behind  him,  and  catching  all  his  falling 
mantles,  and  all  his  tricks  and  maladies. 

Kavanagh  found  Mr.  Churchill  precisely  where 
he  left  him.  He  had  not  advanced  one  step,  — 
not  one.  The  same  dreams,  the  same  longings, 
the  same  aspirations,  the  same  indecision.  A  thou- 
sand things  had  been  planned,  and  none  completed. 
His  imagination  seemed  still  to  exhaust  itself  in 
running,  before  it  tried  to  leap  the  ditch.  While 
he  mused,  the  fire  burned  in  other  brains.  Other 
hands  wrote  the  books  he  dreamed  about.  He 
freely  used  his  good  ideas  in  convei'sation,  and  in 
letters,  and  they  were  straightway  wrought  into 
the  texture  of  other  men's  books,  and  so  lost  to 
him  forever.  His  work  on  Obscure  Martyrs  was 
anticipated  by  Mr.  Hathaway,  who,  catching  the 
idea  from  him,  wrote  and  published  a  series  of 
papers  on  Unknown  Saints,  before  Mr.  Churchill 
had  fairly  arranged  his  materials.  Before  he  had 
written  a  chapter  of  his  great  Romance,  another 
friend  and  novelist  had  published  one  on  the  same 
subject. 

Poor  Mr.  Churchill !     So  far  as  fame  and  ex- 


412  KAVANAGH 

ternal  success  were  concerned,  his  life  certainly 
was  a  failure.  He  was,  perhaps,  too  deeply 
freighted,  too  much  laden  by  the  head,  to  ride  the 
waves  gracefully.  Every  sea  broke  over  him,  — 
he  was  haK  the  time  vinder  water  ! 

All  his  defects  and  mortifications  he  attributed 
to  the  outward  circumstances  of  his  life,  the  exi- 
gencies of  his  profession,  the  accidents  of  chance. 
But,  in  reahty,  they  lay  much  deeper  than  this. 
They  were  within  himself.  He  wanted  the  all- 
controlling,  all-subduing  will.  He  wanted  the  fixed 
purpose  that  sways  and  bends  all  circumstances 
to  its  uses,  as  the  wind  bends  the  reeds  and  rushes 
beneath  it. 

In  a  few  minutes,  and  in  that  broad  style  of 
handling  in  which  nothing  is  distinctly  defined, 
but  everything  clearly  suggested,  Kavanagh 
sketched  to  his  friends  his  three  years'  life  in  Italy 
and  the  East.  And  then,  turning  to  Mr.  Churchill, 
he  said,  — 

"  And  you,  my  friend,  —  what  have  you  been 
doing  all  this  while  ?  You  have  written  to  me  so 
rarely  that  I  have  hardly  kept  pace  with  you.  But 
I  have  thought  of  you  constantly.  In  all  the  old 
cathedrals  ;  in  all  the  lovely  landscapes,  among 
the  Alps  and  Apennines ;  in  looking  down  on 
Duomo  d'Ossola ;  at  the  Inn  of  Baveno  ;  at  Gaeta  ; 
at  Naples  ;  in  old  and  mouldy  Eome ;  in  older 
EgJTt ;  in  the  Holy  Land  ;  in  all  galleries  and 
churches  and  ruins  ;  in  our  rural  retirement  at 
Fiesoli ;  —  whenever  I  have  seen  anything  beauti- 
ful, I  have  thought  of  you,  and  of  how  much  you 
would  have  enjoyed  it  !  " 


A    TALE  413 

Mr.  Churchill  sio-hcd  ;  and  then,  as  if,  with  a 
touch  as  masterly,  he  would  draw  a  picture  that 
should  define  nothing,  but  suggest  everything,  he 
said,  — 

"  You  have  no  children,  Kavanagh  ;  we  have 
five." 

"  Ah,  so  many  already  !  "  exclaimed  Kavanagh, 
"  A  living  Pentateuch  !  A  beautiful  Pentapylon, 
or  five-gated  temple  of  Life  !  A  charming  num- 
ber !  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Churchill,  "  a  beautiful 
number,  Juno's  own ;  the  wedding  of  the  first 
even  and  first  uneven  numbers  ;  the  number  sacred 
to  marriage,  but  having  no  reference,  direct  or 
indirect,  to  the  Pythagorean  novitiate  of  five  years 
of  silence." 

"  No  ;  it  certainly  is  not  the  vocation  of  children 
to  be  silent,"  said  Kavanagh,  laughing,  "That 
would  be  out  of  nature  ;  saving  always  the  children 
of  the  brain,  which  do  not  often  make  so  much 
noise  in  the  world  as  we  desire.  I  hope  a  still 
larger  family  of  these  has  grown  up  around  you 
during  my  absence." 

"  Quite  otherwise,"  answered  the  schoolmaster, 
sadly.  "  My  brain  has  been  almost  barren  of 
songs.  I  have  only  been  trifling,  and  I  am 
afraid,  that,  if  I  play  any  longer  with  Apollo, 
the  untoward  winds  will  blow  the  discus  of  the 
god  against  my  forehead,  and  strike  me  dead  with 
it,  as  they  did  Hyacinth  of  old." 

"  And  your  Romance,  —  have  you  been  more 
successful  with  that?  I  hope  it  is  finished,  or 
nearly  finished  ?  " 


414  KA  VAN  A  Gil 

"  Not  yet  begun,"  said  Mr.  Churchill.  "  The 
plan  and  chaiacters  still  remain  vague  and  indefi- 
nite in  my  mind.  I  have  not  even  found  a  name 
for  it." 

"  That  you  can  determine  after  the  book  is 
written,"  suggested  Kavanagh.  "  You  can  name  it, 
for  instance,  as  the  old  Ileimskringla  was  named, 
from  the  initial  word  of  the  first  chapter." 

"  Ah !  that  was  very  well  in  the  olden  time,  and 
in  Iceland,  when  there  were  no  quarterly  reviews. 
It  would  be  called  affectation  now." 

"  I  see  you  still  stand  a  little  in  awe  of  opinion. 
Never  fear  that.  The  strength  of  criticism  lies 
only  in  the  weakness  of  the  thing  criticised." 

"  That  is  the  truth,  Kavanagh ;  and  I  am  more 
afraid  of  deserving  criticism  than  of  receiving  it. 
I  stand  in  awe  of  my  own  opinion.  The  secret 
demerits  of  which  we  alone,  perhaps,  are  con- 
scious, are  often  more  difficult  to  bear  than  those 
which  have  been  publicly  censured  in  us,  and  thus 
in  some  degree  atoned  for." 

"  I  will  not  say,"  replied  Kavanagh,  "  that  hu- 
mility is  the  only  road  to  excellence,  but  I  am  sure 
that  it  is  one  road." 

"  Yes,  humility,  but  not  humiliation,"  sighed 
Mr.  Churchill,  despondingly.  "  As  for  excellence, 
I  can  only  desire  it  and  dream  of  it ;  I  cannot  at- 
tain to  it,  it  lies  too  far  from  me ;  I  cannot  reach 
it.  These  very  books  about  me  here,  that  once 
stimulated  me  to  action,  have  now  become  my  ac- 
cusers. They  are  my  Euraenides,  and  drive  me  to 
despair." 

"  My   friend,"    said   Kavanagh,   after   a    short 


A    TALE  415 

pause,  during  which  he  had  taken  note  of  Mr. 
Churchill's  sadness,  "  that  is  not  always  excellent 
which  lies  far  away  from  us.  What  is  remote  and 
difficidt  of  access  we  are  apt  to  overrate ;  what  is 
really  best  for  us  lies  always  within  our  reach, 
though  often  overlooked.  To  speak  frankly,  I  am 
afraid  this  is  the  case  with  your  Homance.  You 
are  evidently  grasping  at  something  which  lies  be- 
yond the  confines  of  your  own  experience,  and 
which,  consequently,  is  only  a  play  of  shadows  in 
the  realm  of  fancy.  The  figures  have  no  vitality ; 
they  are  only  outward  shows,  wanting  inward  life. 
We  can  give  to  others  only  what  we  have." 

"  And  if  we  have  nothing  worth  giving?  "  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Churchill. 

"  No  man  is  so  poor  as  that.  As  well  might  the 
mountain  streamlets  say  they  have  nothing  worth 
giving  to  the  sea,  because  they  are  not  rivers. 
Give  what  you  have.  To  some  one,  it  may  be 
better  than  you  dare  to  think.  If  you  had  looked 
nearer  for  the  materials  of  your  Romance,  and  had 
set  about  it  in  earnest,  it  would  now  have  been 
finished." 

"  And  burned,  perhaps,"  interposed  Mr. 
Churchill ;  "  or  sunk  with  the  books  of  Simon 
Magus  to  the  bottom  of  the  Dead  Sea." 

"  At  all  events,  you  would  have  had  the  pleasure 
of  writing  it.  I  remember  one  of  the  old  traditions 
of  Art,  from  which  you  may  perhaps  draw  a  moral. 
When  Raphael  desired  to  paint  his  Holy  Family, 
for  a  long  time  he  strove  in  vain  to  express  the 
idea  that  filled  and  possessed  his  soul.  One  morn- 
ing, as  he  walked  beyond  the  city  gates,  meditat- 


416  KAVANAGH 

ing  the  sacred  theme,  he  beheld,  sitting  beneath  a 
vine  at  her  cottage  door,  a  j:)easant  woman,  hokling 
a  boy  in  her  arms,  while  another  leaned  upon  her 
knee,  and  gazed  at  the  approaching  stranger.  The 
painter  found  here,  in  real  life,  what  he  had  so 
long  sought  for  in  vain  in  the  realms  of  his  imag- 
ination ;  and  quickly,  with  his  chalk  pencil,  he 
sketched,  upon  the  head  of  a  wine-cask  that  stood 
near  them,  the  lovely  group,  which  afterwards, 
when  brought  into  full  perfection,  became  the 
transcendent  Madonna  della  Seggiola." 

"  All  this  is  true,"  replied  Mr.  Churchill,  "  but 
it  gives  me  no  consolation.  I  now  despair  of  writ- 
ing anything  excellent.  I  have  no  time  to  devote 
to  meditation  and  study.  My  life  is  given  to 
others,  and  to  this  destiny  I  submit  without  a 
murmur ;  for  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  having 
labored  faithfully  in  my  calling,  and  of  having 
perhaps  trained  and  incited  others  to  do  what  I 
shall  never  do.  Life  is  still  precious  to  me  for  its 
many  uses,  of  which  the  writing  of  books  is  but 
one.  I  do  not  complain,  but  accept  this  destiny, 
and  say,  with  that  pleasant  author,  Marcus  An- 
toninus, '  Whatever  is  agreeable  to  thee  shall  be 
agreeable  to  me,  O  graceful  Universe !  nothing 
shall  be  to  me  too  early  or  too  late,  which  is  sea- 
sonable to  thee  !  Whatever  thy  seasons  bear  shall 
be  joyful  fruit  to  me,  O  Nature  !  from  thee  are  all 
things ;  in  thee  they  subsist ;  to  thee  they  return. 
Could  one  say.  Thou  dearly  beloved  city  of 
Cecrops  ?  and  wilt  thou  not  say,  Thou  dearly  be- 
loved city  of  God? '  " 

"  Amen  1  "   said   Kavanagh.     "  And,  to  follow 


A   TALE  417 

your  quotation  with  another,  '  The  gale  that  blows 
from  God  we  must  endure,  toiling  but  not  repin- 
ing.'  " 

Here  Mrs.  Churchill,  who  had  something  of 
Martha  in  her,  as  well  as  of  Mary,  and  liad  left 
the  room  when  the  conversation  took  a  literary 
turn,  came  back  to  announce  that  dinner  was 
ready,  and  Kavanagh,  though  warmly  urged  to 
stay,  took  his  leave,  having  first  obtained  from  the 
Churcliills  the  promise  of  a  visit  to  Cecilia  during 
the  evening. 

"  Nothing  done  !  nothing  done  !  "  exclaimed  he, 
as  he  wended  his  way  homeward,  musing  and 
meditating.  "  And  shall  all  these  lofty  aspira- 
tions end  in  nothing?  Shall  the  arms  be  thus 
stretched  forth  to  encircle  the  universe,  and  come 
back  empty  against  a  bleeding,  aching  breast  ?  " 

And  the  words  of  the  poet  came  into  his  mind, 
and  he  thought  them  worthy  to  be  written  in  let- 
ters of  gold,  and  placed  above  every  door  in 
every  house,  as  a  warning,  a  suggestion,  an  incite- 
ment :  — 

Stay,  stay  the  present  instant ! 

Imprint  the  marks  of  wisdom  on  its  wings ! 

Oh,  let  it  not  elude  thy  grasp,  but  like  • 

The  good  old  patriarch  upon  record. 

Hold  the  fleet  angel  fast  until  he  bless  thee ! 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


l?|lcy'i^^^UD 


PLC  28  1959 


REC'O 


HSRas 


1976  , 


23Mar'65BG 


RFC.  CIR.  m  \  f  '" 


MAY  0  2  1993 


'^f^C'D  LD 


MAR  13 '65-1^ 


M 


^^^^^ 


— iiFC  0  %  2003 

^■^^^        ripnprni  T.ihrnrv 


LD  21A-50m-4,'59 
(A1724sl0)476B 


General  Library 
University  of  California 

Berkeley  J# 


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